


A Tale of Two Queens

by graceverse



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M, Like really really slow, Political Jon, Post Season 7, Slow Burn, What if?, anti-dany sorry not sorry, one sided jon/dany, slower than anything that you can think of, starklings are all bamfs, ucl / under cover lover theory
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-02-13
Updated: 2019-03-14
Packaged: 2019-03-17 18:22:34
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 9
Words: 62,881
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13664667
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/graceverse/pseuds/graceverse
Summary: “It's like chess, you know. The Queen saves the King.”― Terry Pratchett, The Shepherd's Crown





	1. but heroes, at times, had to be fools

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Everything was excessively brutal, now that winter has arrived.

So four months ago, I had this crazy Idea of how I wanted Season 8 to go down and posted it on tumblr, which you can read [here](http://graceverse.tumblr.com/post/166102327143/what-if). More notes at the end. 

* * *

 

**Jaime**

Everything was excessively brutal, now that winter has arrived.

He had expected cold biting wind, but the shards of ice cutting through his skin was something he had not been prepared for. Blood would freeze even before it could ooze out of sliced flesh and there was only so much that he could cover with layers upon layers of fur and leather. The hollows underneath his eyes were scarred and he had been very briefly awed and then horrified at the red blood tears running and freezing down his cheeks. His lashes were partly frozen, making it difficult to see, to blink. His fully covered nose and mouth made breathing a struggle and often, he felt like he was slowly suffocating to death. The roads had become slippery with ice and for no reason at all, frozen patches of ground, overnight, will suddenly become melted mush of mud; rivers turned into solid ice, precariously thin in some spots. It was a constant guessing game which way he could safely trod.

The road towards Winterfell was a collection of death traps all waiting to claim him.

The gods were no doubt laughing at him. Jaime Lannister, Kingslayer, Sister Fucker, risking his life to honor a promise made to Catelyn Stark and The Northerners who will probably kill him the moment he step foot on their lands.

Jaime had a long history of bad decisions and this could very well be the worst, but he didn’t want to turn back. Not when he was certain that death also awaited him in Kings Landing. Cersei will never forgive him for this, for abandoning her and her madness. And so onward, he urged his horse, to the place where redemption was still a possibility.

He hoped he could still catch up with Brienne. The only thing that will turn this suicide mission into something bearable was if he could annoy Brienne. He’d tell her how her impassioned “fuck loyalty!” speech had urged him towards this hopeless cause of redeeming himself. He has some choice words to tell her; he’d make her blush so hard, the warmth on her cheeks, Jamie imagined, will be enough to melt snow.

* * *

 

Covered in white, there was nothing to make the South any different from the North. It’s as if the North had laid claim to all the lands of the Seven Kingdoms. Every road, every far off mountain, every river, every town, and every forest Jaime had passed through looked as though it all belonged to the North: it was all ice and snow and freezing wind that howled with wolves at night.

Gods, those wolves! Jaime shuddered, thankful for having survived the night crossing the Trident unscathed. He had come face to face with a direwolf once and he could still feel its hot breath on his face, the snarl of its teeth inches from his eyes. He was fairly certain that there was nothing more terrifying than staring down at an animal that seemed to know _exactly_ who he is and what he had done, its feral eyes glinting like a Lannister coin, coldly judging him.

The Targaryen girl’s dragon was far deadlier, of course, but it had seemed to just want to scorch the land and its people. Its reptilian eyes held nothing but burning wrath when Jaime had stared at it; idiotically riding towards a mouthful of fire and the sharpest, largest teeth he had ever seen. He had hoped that killing it would end a war that has yet to begin. He almost got burned to death in the process and he had, after being saved by Bronn, vowed never to foolishly try being a hero. No hero has ever lived. Or lived happily, at least.

But here he was, cold and miserable, on a quest for last minute heroics. He couldn’t help himself. He found it challenging, proving people wrong. Himself most especially.  

* * *

 

Jaime was nearing the true North and his journey had become slower, even more dangerous. His horse was probably half dead and if the poor beast finally did die, he would soon follow. And so he made sure that they didn’t fall into half frozen lakes or slip on icy roads. He fed the horse more than he fed himself. He made sure they didn’t take the main road. He especially didn’t want to risk encountering scraggly bands of deserters or worst, hungry Northern soldiers.

There were only two things that can make all the complications in life simple: fire and ice. That would be the first lesson he had learned on this god awful journey.

During the day, all thoughts of dragons and Cersei, the Dead Army and facing the accusing, judging eyes of the remaining Stark children would vanish, his sole focus was reduced to one thing only: surviving. At night though, when the distant, skin-crawling howls of wolves surrounded him, he was kept awake by thoughts of Targaryens and Starks. Dragons and The Army of the Dead.

_Fire and Ice._

The gods were chuckling somewhere. Choose one or the other, does not matter which, it all starts and ends with death and then rebirth. From the ashes, will rise the phoenix and from the melted snow, spring.

Jaime definitely liked spring better. Phoenixes, like dragons sounded like something that did not belong amongst the living. Three dragons, they said. He’d only seen one and it obliterated the once mighty Lannister army that had wrought terrors upon the land.

He wondered about the men that they had left behind and hoped that they had bent their knees instead of being burned alive. Jaime could not imagine a worst kind of death: lingering and feeling your flesh curling and crisping, your eyes melting. He shuddered at the thought.

If he had been captured, would he have bent the knee or been burned alive? Would the Targaryen girl realize he has more worth as a captured prisoner? Would Tyrion be able to convince her? Would his brother even try convincing her?

Jaime shook his head; he had never been the type of person to brood over such things. It wouldn’t help him if he started now. It was unfortunate enough that he seemed to have suddenly grown a conscience and so late in the game too. He suddenly missed Bronn. As far as companions go, Bronn at least had a sense of humor and was also refreshingly honest with him. He would yell at his Jaime for being so bloody foolish, for being a right fucking idiot, charging where Death was certain.

Maybe he had _always_ been foolish. Maybe now more than ever, Jaime could be as foolish as he wanted to be. He had already lost so much, there was nothing more that he could ever lose.

Honor and glory? Long gone.

Lannisport? It was never meant to be his and he found out that he loved it less than he had thought possible when he had, under Cersei’s command, sacrificed it for Highgarden’s grains and gold. The gold survived, the grains turned into ashes.

Love? His sister would no doubt kill him now that he had truly betrayed her. She’d watch, cup of wine in her hands as The Mountain slowly tear off his limbs one by one before crushing his skull. She’d probably save his golden hand as a ghastly memento.

Legacy? His children were all dead.

His children.

There was something bitter at the back of his throat every time he thought of them.

Jaime remembered the journey to Winterfell years ago, when his children were still happy and alive. It had been surprisingly pleasant. He had thought he would be miserably bored, a glorified guard for the fat, drunk king. Thankfully, he had been assigned to the royal children. _His_ royal children. Had the whole kingdom known all along? Probably. People, Lords and Ladies most of all, feared Tywin Lannister and the power he held at the Kings Landing. Only the truly foolish would have had the courage to bring the King’s attention to his bastard children. Robert loved them, Jaime thought. At least in his own way he did. If Robert wasn’t entertaining whores in his solar, he would have the children playing around. Except for Joffrey.

Joffrey was Cersei’s, from the very start, he had always belonged to her.

Jaime’s horse had walked a steady pace beside the children’s palanquin, riding with them as they crossed the land that they will one day inherit. Their future then had been bright and so very full of possibilities. Myrcella could have gotten The Vale, Tommen the Trident. He had told them this and they had grinned up at him, their Uncle Jaime, so casually giving away parts of Joffrey’s Kingdom.

Even Joffrey had seemed pleased by the idea of his little brother and sister getting their lion’s share of the land. Of course, Joffrey had declared that he will have The North, by way of marriage. Robert had been telling the boy that he was to be married to Ned Stark’s eldest daughter and Cersei _had_ been pleased about that. The North was the largest of the seven kingdoms and one that, even with its harsh weather, was filled with rich verdant forest, rivers and shores. So few Northern families share this huge land and all its natural treasures, wouldn’t it be nice to finally have a Southern family take part in the North’s riches?

Joffrey had boasted about taking the North as his, and in a rare moment, had allowed his siblings to tease him about taking nothing but snow and ice that would’ve easily melted by the time he arrived at King’s Landing.

Had it been the last time that they had been truly happy?

There was some ironic twist to that, one that Jaime might have appreciated if his children hadn’t all died horrible deaths, one after the other, as though a curse had been laid upon them the moment they left Winterfell. And here he was, coming back to the place where the beginning of the end had started.

That would be another irony, wouldn’t it? Jamie Lannister, freezing to death in the North, encased in a coffin made of ice, on his way to one last heroic hurrah.

* * *

 

How the bloody Northerners could ever survive long winter months was beyond him. The last winter he had experienced was nowhere near this cold or wretched. They had spent it inside the tall, impenetrable walls of Lannisport, their rooms warmed by fires, the kitchens well stocked so that they were never without any of the food that they may demand upon their cooks.  

They were even allowed to play outside where he and Cersei (mostly Cersei) played awful tricks on Tyrion: burying him under mounds of snow, barring the door so that Tyrion was forced to stay outside for hours on end, cold and miserable, his tiny little legs walking around their garden, looking for a door, a small window where he could crawl in. They threw great big snowballs at him.

Cersei had wickedly put stones on hers and one had landed right smack on poor Tyrion’s face, blood instantly gushing out from his broken nose. Jaime remembered grabbing Cersei’s wrist to stop her from throwing another, the unvoiced warning in his tight grip made Cersei drop her lethal snowball. It was meant to be a fun game, not an opportunity to murder their helpless youngest brother.

Of course Tyrion hadn’t cried. He had merely pinched the bridge of his nose and walked away from them. They saw him at dinner time, swollen nose and all, but he didn’t say anything and neither did their father who just looked at his youngest son long and hard before finally quietly grumbling, “You will stop your foolishness and stay inside for the rest of the week.” His father had let Cersei finish her barely suppressed snicker, before coldly adding, “All of you.”

Tywin always made sure that his two perfect children have valid reasons to dislike Tyrion. Jaime hadn’t realized it, not until he was older and then he decided that the safest way to defy his father was by taking Tyrion under his wing and protecting him. He wasn’t able to get Tyrion out of trouble as often as he liked, though. Whenever she was bored, Cersei schemed to get their father to punish Tyrion for the smallest of reasons, most of them imagined slights, but Tyrion had always kept quiet, so Jaime did. No sense in waging wars on all fronts. It was one thing to fight these silly battles with his father, it was another to risk injuring Tyrion’s pride (which he valued more than gold) _and_ Cersei’s anger.

Jaime had tried his best to be a Lannister, whatever that entailed. Being a Lannister demanded a lot, not just loyalty but a long list of transgressions he had willingly made. And will probably do again, if given a chance. We are closest to who we really are in those moments when there were no clear cut choices. To say that he would have done things differently would simply be a lie. 

He had betrayed his king in favor of his father – for their family name. No matter how mad King Aerys had been, he had sworn to protect him. Did he regret breaking that vow? No. Not one bit. The whole Kingdom can call him Kingslayer all they want, in fact, they can even put that in his headstone, he did not give a damn. He did what was needed to be done and ended the tyranny of a King bent on cruelly burning his people, his whole Kingdom.

Jaime had acted selfishly by loving his sister; he had pushed an innocent boy out of a window to die just so he could protect and prolong their sordid affair; he had started a fucking war to rescue his little brother. He did all these terrible things but in the end, he still failed at being a Lannister.

Sometimes, Jamie hated his father for dying and leaving them to a world where all three remaining Lannisters were fighting in different sides. Tywin, no doubt is rolling on his grave and cursing his three useless, squabbling children.

History will remember them not as the Golden Trio, but three lion heads snapping their jaws at one another. He had abandoned his sister who was, day by day, slowly reminding him of the mad King he had betrayed. And now, he is about to turn his back on his brother, because this is what this trudging in the fucking snow is all about. This whole journey back to where it all started, to Winterfell, it was all for The Starks.   

* * *

 

As far as plans go, this was the absolute worst.

He finally caught up with Brienne at the edge of the fields where the now famous Battle of the Bastards had occurred. By the time he had seen their dreadful 2-person camp, Jaime couldn’t feel anything. He had wanted to scream and wave his hands in joy, but his muscles refused to move. His clothes had turned into sheets of ice. His bones felt like they could easily shatter, Jaime was certain that he could hear them rattling inside his body, but he could not stop himself from violently shivering.

Brienne saw him and with an exasperated oath, pulled him off his horse to sit him near a fire she had made. A miserable one at that. He practically laid down on top of it, just to get himself warmed. When he was sure that he was still alive, the first thing he realized was that it had stopped snowing and that Brienne was scowling down at him.

“What?” He asked, not hiding his annoyance. “Were you expecting a large army? Red Lannister banners gloriously flapping in the wind and all that?”

“Is it just you, then?” She asked, towering above him.

Jaime briefly closed his eyes before attempting to grin, his muscles felt frozen and he might have given Brienne a ghastly grimace instead. “Well, no. I actually had a rag tag bunch of Tully army – what remained of them, at least – behind me. Sadly, I think they all drowned in the river we crossed. They really ought to change their sigil.”

Brienne, who seemed to never think much of his humor, glared at him.

“You think the Tully army will follow me to Winterfell?” Jaime asked incredulously, sitting up. “They’d probably tie me up on a horse, let me walk to my death and deliver me as block of ice if they could, which they _can’t_ and that is why I’m here. Alone.” He turned towards Podrick, “you, boy, add some more wood to this fire for god’s sake!”

Pod nervously shot off towards the forest to look for more wood. Jamie rolled his eyes as he listened to Brienne huffing and puffing at him in annoyance.

“You couldn’t convince Lady Sansa and Lady Arya’s uncle to come and help them?” Brinne asked in her usual way, almost spitting out the words, clearly unhappy about something.

“Is that a real question?” Jaime asked through chattering teeth. Brienne’s hand not so subtly wandered over to the hilt of her sword and Jaime gave her the sweetest smile he could muster. “I did not try.” Jamie’s confession and tired sigh earned him another glare. “Everyone in the Trident hates the Lannisters, me most of all. So let’s just put that plan behind us and tell me how I am going to get an audience with the remaining children of the family that _my_ family had so effectively pissed off.”

Brienne regarded him for a whole minute, before sighing in defeat. “You’re to come with me.”

He tried to raise his half frozen eyebrows and failed miserably. “They know I’m coming, then?”

Brienne winced, “No. Not really.”

Jaime frowned and hanged his head in mock defeat.

“Well, if I’d told them you were coming in advance, it would have given them time to talk about how your family had so effectively pissed them off.”

Jaime grudgingly nodded his head. That made sense. “So, I just walk into the castle with you?”

Brienne gave him a long hard look as though trying to figure out if he was joking. It was exasperatingly delightful. “Yes.” She finally said through gritted teeth when she realized that he was actually waiting for an answer.

Jaime shook his head, “This is exactly _why_ the Starks are so easy to kill.” He felt the hilt of Brienne’s sword smack him right at the back of his head.

“Don’t you fucking dare.” Brienne said, before sitting down beside him and tossing him a dried piece of salted meat. He devoured it gracelessly. 

* * *

 

On their way to Winterfell, on horses that were still amazingly alive, Jamie asked about the now infamous Battle of the Bastards. He had heard of it and had not believed anything until it was Brienne who was giving him all the details.

He howled with laughter, tears streaming and then freezing down his cheeks when he realized that Sansa Stark, that foolish girl who once stared at his son with stars in her eyes, had managed to let loose the Knights of the Vale (who had cowardly cowered inside the Vale for the longest time) upon Bolton’s army, save her bastard brother _and_ take Winterfell back.

And not just that, she had done what Cersei had wanted to do ever since she had become Queen, but had repeatedly failed at: Sansa Stark had trapped Lord Baelish into a corner and at a pretense of a court judging his sins, had allowed her sister, Lady Arya Stark, to slit his throat in one stroke.

“Arya Stark, the Avenging Wolf.” Jaime murmured. Brienne sent him another one of her warning glares that would only encourage him to say more. How had she not figured that out, Jaime will never know. “House Frey is gone because of her. You should have heard the stories when I passed by The Trident. _The North Remembers_. The women folk repeated it like a prayer.”

Brienne contemplated on this. Either she did not know, or she had heard, but had never believed it. It did seem uncanny, a girl Arya’s age wiping of The Frey family from the map. But who else could it be?

“The whole fucking miserable cowardly lot, all dead. Good riddance, I say. I bet anyone with the Frey name who is still alive has already changed it to Rivers.” He tilted his head, trying to remember how Ned Stark’s youngest daughter had looked like. Skinny, was all he could remember. She has now acquired some skills, obviously. And maybe some help. She could not have done it all on her own. But Jaime reminded himself not to underestimate them. “I should thank her for that.” He added with a nod, “And the young one, Bran?”

Brienne scoffed at him. “He isn’t young anymore.”

“No one is.”

“What about Lord Bran?”

“I heard he is… different?”

Brienne considered this for a moment, pausing thoughtfully. “Where do you hear such things?” She asked him irritably. When Jaime didn’t offer her any answers, Brienne paused before continuing. “He has… visions. He’s been beyond the wall and he knows things. That’s all that I could say about him, anything else would be untrue, so do not believe anything that you hear about him.”

Jamie idly rubbed his snow covered beard.  

Brinne looked at him sideways before nodding, “You’re nervous. That’s to be expected, I suppose.”

Jamie didn’t think nervous was the right word. No, it was not nerves that were bothering him. He wasn’t afraid of death, if it will come to that. It would be understandable if the Starks decide to have his head on a block the moment they laid their eyes upon him. It would be regrettable, sure and he would probably try to fight off the guards that will be dragging him outside. It wasn’t in his nature to just surrender. He wanted to live despite and in spite of _everything_. That was what had kept him going for so long. Nothing is more boring than being dead and Jamie absolutely hated being bored.

No. It was how much the remaining Stark children had changed. The last time he had seen them, they were exactly just that, _children_. And now, they had armies coming to their aide, Wildlings from beyond the Wall welcomed into their lands, ready to fight for them when needed, a sudden political savagery (probably acquired from his sister), the ability to wipe out a whole house, to see things.

He had never dealt with that. He knew how to organize military attacks, how to defend himself, how to lead an army, but not how to deal with children unmade by the cruelties of war. At least his children had been who they had been when they died. Joffrey was still Joffrey. Myrcella and Tommen, grown up, yes, but nothing had changed within them. They were scarred, true, but they were still _whole_.

Sansa. Arya. Bran. Even Jon Snow. They were no longer who they once had been. They’d been broken, torn apart, died and reborn. He’d never met these people. Didn’t know what to expect.

Brienne was quiet as she considered this. “That is true. They _are_ still children. But they have stopped being children long ago and how they are now, there is nothing quite like them. Nothing I have seen or heard of before. Lady Sansa is like an old Queen, who had seen Kingdoms crumbling and rising beneath her feet. Lady Arya fights like a savage warrior but she moves with lightness and grace. Lord Bran is…” Brienne shrugged, as though it didn’t matter. “They are who their parents have taught them how to be. That is how they survived.”

“I’m not interested in _how_ they survived. I’m pretty sure it was bloody and gruesome and consisted of nothing but pain and misery. That’s to be expected. We’re at war. What I want to know is what they are willing to do to continue surviving.”

A frown passed through Brienne’s face, turning into a scowl. She was deep in thought as they entered the gates of Winterfell, the two guards nodding at her and letting her pass without question. Jaime had to pause for a whole second, before he followed, keeping his eyes straight, his whole body as relaxed as possible. He supposed it was not so surprising that he could so easily come back to Winterfell and no one would recognize him. How would they? His father had effectively wiped out almost all of the Lords and sons of the North. Those that had survived didn’t even know how Jamie Lannister looked. Certainly, not this scruffy barely alive, half-frozen, one handed man that Brienne was returning with. They seemed to trust Brienne enough not to question her companion.

Or perhaps they already knew who he was and that they are all quietly aware that judgment will be passed upon him before the day ends. He could feel their eyes following him and Jaime felt that if they were to judge him now, these people who had suffered unimaginable losses from the war that he had helped start, he would be hanged right now, at this very moment, no questions asked.

 

* * *

 

**Brienne**

 

Brienne left Jaime inside her room, took all of his weapons, except for his golden hand and almost tied him to her bed, which he did suggest and which was why she had huffily slammed the door on him. She was not at all confident at how this will end. True, she had earned Sansa and Arya’s trust, Bran barely even acknowledges her, but she was still bringing an enemy inside their castle, one that had played a significant part in all the sufferings that they had endured. If they asked her to kill him, would she be able to do it?

Out of loyalty for Catelyn Stark, yes.

But it would definitely change something between them and Brienne hoped that they would know this and understand this. Gritting her teeth, Brienne steadied herself. Jaimie, the cursed idiot, should have at least brought a handful of loyal soldiers. It would have helped his cause more. He has nothing to offer the North. No army. No weapons. Nothing. Will betraying Cersei be enough? Will they believe that he had abandoned his beloved sister?

No.

But she had urged him to come here and she would at least try to make the Starks see what it would mean for the realm to have Cersei’s most loyal brother come to their side. Jaime was no longer the fighter that he had been before, but his name still resonated

She found them all inside the Lord’s solar, Sansa seated at the center, Arya on her right, Bran on the left. They were expecting news from the meeting at King’s Landing and Brienne gave them all the details, including finally seeing the Targaryen princess riding late into the dragon pit, expecting everyone to quake inside their boots at the sight of her horrible monster.

None of the Starks looked impressed. They already have heard of a dragon, probably more fearsome than the Targaryen girl’s. This one had come back from the dead and had so easily destroyed The Wall over at Eastwatch. A wall that had stood for thousands of years, gone in less than a day. This Undead Dragon now bore the Night King on his back, breathing blue flame; fire that could not be quenched by ice or water. 

Brienne could feel her stomach clenching. An undead dragon, flying past Eastwatch, headed straight towards them. She asked if Jon had been informed, there was a moment of heavy silence before Sansa nodded her head, “A raven has already been sent to the Warden of the North. He knows.”

_Warden of the North._

Brienne looked at the faces of each of the Stark children and realized that there was nothing more to be said. They will seek her counsel when they needed. So she took a deep breath and told them that she has brought with her Jamie Lannister.

A long dark pause. The Stark children regarded her with blank faces as though she had spoken in a different language and they could not understand what she meant. They looked like carved statues, unblinking, breath stilled. Brienne tried no to stand taller, to exert any form of power, or force over them. She had none, of course. But she suddenly felt defensive and at the same time, she wanted to reassure them that harm would not come to them, not when her loyalty will always _always_ be with them. Words are winds, though, so she kept quiet.   

Arya Stark was the first to move, she merely tilted her head. Next to her, Sansa’s face, already pale and chalky white, lost all its colors and for a moment, Brienne thought she was looking at a ghost. Bran was the only one who did not seem to have any reaction at all, once her declaration had sunk in.

“How dare you?” Arya asked, her voice completely calm.  “What right do you have to bring that man into our house?” Eye blazing, she added in a low, pained voice, “He killed Jory. He ---”

“I am sure that he killed many of your friends and family, but he has turned his back on his sister and is willing to fight with us.”

“Did he bring an army with him?” Sansa asked after she had recovered. “Provisions for winter? Grains and meat and pelts for our use?”

Brinne shook her head. Jaime has brought his sword, his golden hand and a horse that has already probably died in the stables.

“His crimes will be judged and he will be executed.” Arya declared.

Brienne watched as Sansa swallowed, closing her eyes, before turning to look at her. “We will hear what he has to say.”

Arya rolled her eyes to protest, but Sansa very gently held her hand. Brienne had never seen them affectionate towards each other. And to be shown this, it meant something. “Let me do this for Brienne.” Sansa said in a voice that wasn’t pleading or commanding. It was two sisters trying to grasp the situation they were suddenly thrust into. “We will not slaughter a friend of hers that she has brought into our house, seeking peace. We are Starks. Not Lannisters or Boltons or Freys who are false and dishonorable. We do not seek blood and violence, not after everything that we have been through.”

Arya moved away from Sansa, taking her hands off the table, away from her sister's grasp. She gave Sansa a long measured look, finally letting out a small, knowing smile. “No you don’t. But I do. I am justice and vengeance. That is who I am.”  

Sansa nodded her head. “I understand. Thank you.” She turned towards Brienne, “bring Ser Jaime in.”


	2. stronger together

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “We will do what father had done all his life.” She paused to look at Bran and Arya, who both wordlessly nodded their heads. “We will protect Jon.”

So four months ago, I had this crazy Idea of how I wanted Season 8 to go down and posted it on tumblr, which you can read [here](http://graceverse.tumblr.com/post/166102327143/what-if). More notes at the end. 

* * *

 

**Arya**

She supposed she should have expected Sansa’s decision to listen to what The Kingslayer has to say. Arya wanted nothing more than to cut out his tongue. Yes, she’d start with that. Whatever Jaime Lannister has to say, the verdict will be the same: guilty for all the crimes committed against the realm, against the North, against the Starks.

Perhaps Sansa merely wanted to hear a lion groveling at their feet. That would not be so bad either. Sansa should be able to look into those Lannister green eyes and watch as it slowly filled with terror. She deserved it more than anyone of them. Her sister had suffered the most under the hands of lions. There would be a strange satisfaction to look upon their enemy as they sentence them to death.

Arya had not forgotten the thrill of holding the heads of Walder Frey and Littlefinger against her chest before slowly sliding the dagger across their necks. Arya remembered their erratic, rapid breathing, eyes hopelessly rolling back, to look upon a Stark face. Perhaps in the last moments before their death, they even saw Father and Mother, Robb and Rickon.    

Arya remembered Littlefinger pleading. It was a song sweet enough for Arya to replay inside her mind over and over again. She had not been able to make Walder Frey ask for mercy. She should’ve. Sansa had her songs of Knights and Heroes. She’ll have the desperate songs of their enemies.

_Please. Please. Please, don’t. Don’t kill me, please._

“How long shall we make him beg?” Arya asked as they waited for Brienne, arching her eyebrows up, wondering what Sansa would have to say to that. Arya was aware that as Lady of Winterfell, as the head of the North, and in Jon’s stead, Sansa was not to act rashly and with obvious bloodlust. People depended on her. She was essentially the leader of their people now and everything she did, everything she decided on would have an impact to those that were supporting them and to those who were under their protection. Sansa has to be both Father and Mother. Stern but just. Brave but gentle. Honorable but pragmatic. It would not do them any good if all the Starks in Winterfell were either dead on the inside or the harbinger of death. Someone has to act like a noble woman, a true lady for the people. Arya did not envy Sansa’s position. She did not have the patience or the training to think beyond justice and revenge.  

That did not mean that Arya was not aware of the political implications of Jamie Lannister showing up at Winterfell. But let him be here on the orders of Cersei. Let him be here to sow chaos. Let him be here to kill them and then she can unleash her justice without having to worry about anything else. Arya stared at her sister, watching as her face darkened. No doubt, Sansa was remembering everything that she had gone through in King’s Landing. All under the oppressive lions, prowling around her, taking swipes at her with their sharp claws, wounding her and making her cower in fear. And now, the tables have turned. Now, Sansa had the power to make them kneel and beg. A pack of wolves defending their territory is no match for a lone injured lion, no matter how fiercesome he used to be. 

“I doubt he’s here to ask for mercy.” Sansa answered her voice low and unwavering. She sounded as harsh and cold as the winter storm raging outside.

Arya nodded in agreement. She didn’t think The Kingslayer was capable of remorse. He had not been sorry when he had killed the King he’d been sworn to protect. It would certainly be in his character to deny them the satisfaction of watching him ask for forgiveness.

Sansa gave her a look, part questioning, part challenging. “But if you want him to, I’m sure you have plenty of ways to make him confess all of his sins.”

Arya gave her the smallest of smiles. Sansa would allow that. She would give her that at least. And Arya wondered if there would ever come a time when they will no longer surprise each other, when they would both be as they had been years ago, capable of easily guessing what the other was thinking.

True, she and Sansa had not been close when they were children, not like she and Jon had been but Arya had always thought that if they had been able to escape Kings Landing together, they would have spent countless nights in hiding, curled up and whispering their many fears. Arya would have protected Sansa by day and Sansa would have taken care of her at night. Sansa would have held her and sing her songs and Arya would have closed her eyes and it would be so, so easy to imagine Sansa as their lady mother. She and Sansa maybe sun and moon, but they were sisters. They were of the same blood. They were Starks. They were wolves. They would have learned to survive together.

Arya turned towards Bran, “Do you want him to apologize for ruining our lives?” She’d give him that if he so asked.

“War ruins all lives, does not matter whose.” Bran’s answer was never an answer but always a riddle of some sort. Arya thought if she should collect them all, as some sort of puzzle she could try and solve, maybe then it would unlock the wall Bran had hidden himself inside. Arya longed for Bran’s brightness and she was desperately sorry that the Bran who had met her the night she came back looked at her as though they had never been parted. He did not seem at all eager to reach out to hug her and welcome her back. The Bran who was quick to give out smiles and gentle teasing was gone.  She had hoped and hoping had disappointed her once more. She should have learned that lesson by now, but evidently, a small secret part of her was still the young Arya whose only dream was to best her brothers in sword fighting and archery. That tiny stubborn part of her that had shared Bran’s dreams of becoming a Knight still wanted to come back to an unchanged Winterfell, with Father and Mother waiting for her, her brothers running to crush her inside their warm, strong arms.

It was a bit unfair of her to secretly demand Bran to stay the same old Bran. She did not yet know what he had gone through. She knew about him being the Lord of Winterfell when Mother and Robb marched South, she knew he had to part with Rickon and that would have been as painful and miserable when Arya had to leave King’s Landing without Sansa. Arya had heard about Bran going beyond the Wall but she did not know what all that had entailed. It seemed all too much for his age. But hadn’t they all gone through horrible, unspeakable things? They all had to build walls around themselves; otherwise they would have gone made or not lived at all.

Bran with his stoic, empty face, Sansa with her imperious, suspicious steel-blue eyes, and Arya, well she has her many faces. Their walls were built as strong as those at the edge of the North, not so easily breached. They have learned their lessons the hard way. She was on the verge of wondering what Mother or Father or Robb or Rickon would think of them now but Arya immediately stopped herself. Mother and Father, Robb and Rickon were all dead. They were all lost to her and it was simply futile to ponder about ‘what ifs’. It was nothing but unnecessary torment. She has had enough of that.

“Apologies will not change anything.” Bran added, keeping his eyes fixed at some distant point, as though he could see beyond the stone walls of their father’s solar which they have all claimed and have used to address Northern Lords, Vale Knights and surprisingly, even Wildlings. Arya had been quietly impressed at Sansa’s unruffled reaction to having Wildlings petition them for more food, which Sansa had willingly provided, as long as the Wildlings continued their peaceful co-existence with everyone within the walls of Winterfell. Sansa seemed to have kept the peace between the Northerners and their sworn enemies from beyond the Wall. An amazing feat, one Arya had not expected Sansa would have been capable of doing. Sansa treated the Wildlings with respect and they have, in turn, seemed to trust her enough to know that even though their main supporter had gone South, they were still under her protection.

Arya gave her siblings long, measured looks which Sansa returned with the same expression, only hers had soften after a whole second, as though she had glanced at the Arya of before, the Arya that had plagued her by putting rotting leaves on her braid and splashing mud on her immaculate dress. Did Sansa miss that girl as fiercely as Arya did?

She quietly let Sansa reach out to touch her hand and she did not snatch it back this time. It had been so long since she has been touched with affection, no matter how awkward it was. Sansa was a stranger to her, but a sister still. What she had gone through at Kings Landing, at the Vale, at the hands of the Bastard Bolton, Arya could only guess. She would not know the entirety of Sansa’s wounds, just as Sansa would never know of hers. There were things that she would not be able to put into words anyway, like how it felt the first time she had ever killed a person, the feel of soft flesh yielding against Needle’s blade and how she had felt nothing afterwards. What would Sansa say to that? Sansa who seemed to have retained the most of her old self.

 _That_ , Arya could at least admit, was envious of.

And Jon. How will she find Jon once he returned home? How changed would he be? Would he still be able to pick her up in a hug, spin her around, laughter in his dark grey eyes? Sansa had told her about Jon’s death. How horrible it must have been, dying at the hands of his own sworn brothers (the gods seemed to specially like to torture their family, perhaps they’d be willing to turn a blind eye every time Arya sought for retribution). Did that change Jon? Did he expect her to be as vibrant and spirited as she had been before? And would he be sorely disappointed to know that she could find so little reason to smile or laugh out loud? Already, Arya was wary of how she was to accept this whole bending of the knee business, because surely, Jon would never have given The North so easily to the Dragon Queen? Not after Robb, and practically the whole of the North, had died fighting for it. But if he had, then it would mean that he was now playing the game of thrones and that made Arya nervous. Father played that game too. Father lost his head for it.

There was a knock on the door and when the order to enter was given by Sansa, it opened to reveal Samwell Tarly, visibly nervous and looking like he was the one who was about to be judged and punished with death. He turned his back and Arya was almost sure that he’d say, “Right, sorry. I didn’t mean to interrupt,” and he’d be gone. Instead, he very carefully closed the door, took a deep breath and faced them once more.

“What is it, Sam?” Sansa asked, suddenly gentle and warm, obviously trying to put Sam at ease. 

“My Lady. Ladies.” He corrected quickly, nodding at Arya’s direction. “Lord Bran had asked me here to…” he paused to wipe the sweat from his face before swallowing hard, unable to say anything more.

“Did you bring the book?” Bran asked, as though it explained everything.

“I did, yes.” He had hidden it underneath his black coat and moving rather clumsily, began flipping through the pages. He cursed himself when a page was almost torn out. He very gently caressed the opened book, almost like an apology before turning the pages once again, but slowly this time and with outmost care. It seemed to have calmed him down somewhat and now he was busy trying to look for a certain passage, he seemed to have forgotten their presence.

“Bran, what is this about?” Sansa asked and Arya almost bit her tongue from trying not to tell Sansa to **_not_** ask Bran. She was not in the mood to listen to another riddle. But Bran thankfully didn’t answer. He had turned his attention to the burning logs at the large hearth that was keeping the solar comfortably warm.

“Here it is.” Sam declared as he gave them a triumphant look. “I – ugh, I lost the page earlier, sorry. I should have put a bookmark, it would have definitely made it easier and good gods, I almost tore out a page…” He sounded so terribly anxious.

Arya felt Sansa edged towards the table that separated them. She held her arms out, palms opened in a reassuring gesture. It made Sam blush even harder but Sansa beckoned Sam to step closer.  “It’s alright Sam. Just take a deep breath.” Sansa gave him a sweet smile and Sam very eagerly took great big gulping breaths. “There now, that’s it. Put down the book here so you don’t have to carry it. Such an awfully large book. Where did you get it?”

Sam’s eyes widened in fear and he began to stutter nonsensically. Arya rolled her eyes, she was at the end of her patience and if she had to use that book to knock Sam out of his fretful misery, she’d do it in less than a heartbeat.

“Show it to them Sam.” Bran ordered and for some reason it made Arya shiver.

Sam nodded and without another word, went up to their table and laid the book in front of them, “Here. It says here…” and Arya’s eyes followed Sam’s shaking finger as it pointed at an entry, written in clear, crisp handwriting. Her eyes skipped some of the words as soon as she saw the familiar name: Lyanna Stark. Rhaegar Targaryen. Annulment. Marriage.

The more Arya read, the more it did not make sense. She felt as though someone had yanked the rug from underneath her and she was falling into nothing, a world that she can no longer recognize.

 

* * *

 

 

**Sansa**

 

There was a sudden heavy silence all around them as soon as they had finished silently reading the passage that Sam had shown them. Sam gingerly stepped away from them, allowing them a moment to absorb the revelation hidden behind some old maesters tome.

A Stark girl marrying a Targaryen prince. A wolf cloaked in secret, the color of red and black.

Sansa wondered if it meant that the Dragon Queen Jon had knelt to was now their distant aunt? The sister of the man that their Aunt Lyanna had married. Will that change anything? She didn’t think it would. Lyanna marrying Rhaegar did not mean that the North should declare for Daenerys. Aunt Lyanna wasn’t the head of the Stark Family and although this marriage tied them to the Targaryens in some way it would not have any significant political consequences. In fact, it made things so much worst. After marrying their aunt, Rhaegar had kept it a secret and then had let his mad father torture and kill his wife's father and brother. What a stupid man Rhaegar had turned out to be! He knew Lyanna was already betrothed to Robert Baratheon. He knew that there were already whispers of great families in the North and in the South joining together to go against King Aerys and instead of trying to fix the damage his father’s madness had wrought upon the land, he had been busy seducing and marrying Lyanna. A girl of fourteen!

“That is an interesting story, Sam.” Sansa was careful not to sound dismissive. It’s an important discovery, of course, but not one that they could use now to help in their cause. Perhaps maybe after the war, Sam could investigate further, but it is hardly a priority…

“They had a son. Prince Rhaegar and Aunt Lyanna.”

Bran’s voice was low, no longer that of a boy and Sansa realized with dismay that not only had she lost the cheerful Bran, but she had also never known how Bran had so quickly become a man. He was taller than Robb was when she had last seen him, before they left for the South. Sansa’s throat closed up at the memory of Robb holding her and telling her how he’d miss her and how Joffrey better treat her right. She quickly pushed the memory away, afraid that she would suddenly burst out crying. She hadn’t seen Bran stand up of course, but his long legs had already given her an idea of how tall he could be if hadn’t been forced on his chair. “How do you know? It does not say anything in the books, does it?” She looked back at Sam who had bitten his lips and quickly shook his head.

“I don’t understand why this is important.” Arya piped in, her tone incredibly bored. Sansa sensed something of a disappointed note in Arya's voice. Everyone had always told Arya how she had reminded them of Lyanna Stark and maybe finding out that their strong willed aunt had been susceptible to the Targaryen charm cast an disillusioned light on the mysterious Lyanna Stark, who they had, Arya in particular, always  looked up to.

“Father promised Aunt Lyanna.” Bran intoned.

Arya glared at their younger brother. “Again, that does not make any sense. Quit with the riddles, Bran. I’m tired. We have to deal with a Lannister and I am not wasting my energy on this.”

Sansa frowned. She didn’t like the way Bran was looking at the fire at their hearth: empty, glassy eyed. As though he was seeing something entirely different, or perhaps, he was somewhere else, far, far away from them. She wanted to grab him and shake him and wake him from this trance. It scared her. She had an irrational fear that she would lose Bran if she let him stare too much into the fire, is she let him drift farther from them. “Father promised Aunt Lyanna, what?” She demanded, her voice sounding shrill.

Bran seemed to have snapped out of whatever hypnotic spell that held him. He looked at her, his bright deep blue eyes so achingly familiar that Sansa almost lunged at him; it had been such a long time since she had seen those eyes look at her with the concentrated intensity of the little boy climbing the walls of Winterfell. This was her – _their_ – Bran! He has come back!

“That he will protect him. You see, that’s why father never told the truth about Jon’s mother.”

Something inside Sansa’s head seemed to click. It was like a piece of machine with an empty slot whose purpose never made sense and suddenly, in her hands, was the missing cog. The room suddenly felt huge and imposing, it’s once familiar walls seemed to be slowly pressing down on them, sucking out the air. Sansa could not breathe. She could feel her whole body going cold, as though she had plunged into a frozen lake.

_No. No. No._

Sansa wordlessly shook her head, clearing away all the thoughts that were ruthlessly slamming into her. Jon is the son of Aunt Lyanna and Prince Rhaegar. Jon is not a bastard. Jon is the son of a crowned Prince! Jon is a Targaryen! Jon is… is no longer her half-brother. Sansa closed her eyes at the onslaught of emotions that were threatening to overwhelm her. A part of her understood, but a part of her was too shocked to believe in it, and she felt bitterly sad for Jon who had been lied to all his life, and yet she couldn’t stop herself from blaming their father, who was only honoring his beloved sister’s last dying wish but in so doing had irrevocably hurt their lady mother.

“No!” Arya’s outburst broke the silence. She was seething with rage, Sansa could see it in the way her sister’s body trembled, her hands tightly clenched into a fist that she brought down against the table. “That’s a lie! That’s not true! I want you…” She was breathing heavily, briefly looking lost as she glanced at her and then Bran and then finally to Sam, who whimpered in fear as Arya pointed at him with shaking fingers, “You! I am ordering you to burn this book!”

Sansa held out her hand to touch Arya, but she shook free from her. Sansa had to think fast. This revelation was monumental. It changes _everything!_ She closed her eyes; bringing her own fist against her temples, trying to understand what this meant, not just to Jon and to her and her family, but to the North. To the whole Kingdom.

A prince of fire and ice. A Targaryen prince with the blood of dragons and of Winterfell.

_Jon._

Her sweet, gentle, brave Jon.

Jon who was coming here with a Targaryen Princess… no, Queen. A queen with two dragons, wanting to take the Iron Throne. The Iron Throne that, if this book and Bran is to be believed, does not even rightfully belong to her! It belongs to Rhaegar’s son, not Rhaegar’s sister.  

Fear, like cold frost quickly spreading inside Sansa’s veins had suddenly made her aware of the danger Jon was in. “Who else had seen this?!” She demanded the same time Arya made a grab for the book. Sam, who had looked meek earlier, was quick to snatch the book away, hugging it to himself, determined to save it from the fires.

“No one! No one knows! I swear it! I haven’t shown it to anyone except Lord Bran and… well, I mean, Gilly saw it before I did, but I….I don’t think she understands what it means. Truly, she doesn’t!” There was a panicked hitch in Sam’s voice and although Sansa very much wanted to assure Sam that Gilly was in no danger, she was still too busy trying to take a handle of the situation that was quickly getting out of hand as Arya started to stand up, her anger making her tremors more visible.

“It means nothing.” Arya snarled. “Jon is **_my_** brother. He is **_not_** the son of Rhaegar.  He is not a fucking Targaryen.” Had Arya been shouting, Sansa would have been alarmed, this was nothing to shout about, but her sister’s voice was low, filled with volatile rage that could explode at any moment. She had no idea how to calm her down.

“Yes he is.” Bran insisted his own voice strong and determined. Sansa could see that he wasn’t going to back down from Arya’s anger. He’s been beyond the Wall, he probably has seen and faced things worse than Arya’s anger.

“Seven hells, Brandon! Shut it! You don’t know what you’re talking about!”

Sansa cringed. She wondered if maybe Bran was under estimating Arya. Mother used to call Bran his full name when she was truly cross and if the situation hadn’t been so dire, Sansa would have been amused that Arya would be mirroring their mother’s approach when angry. She warily moved closer to Arya, prepared to wrap her in her arms, hoping it might calm her down although she was half-terrified that it might set her sister off into a murdering rampage she won’t be able to stop. “Arya, please. Don’t.” She entreated instead, unsure of what she was pleading for but miraculously, Arya appeared to have calmed down.

Arya blinked down on her, frowning. “Sansa, please tell me you don’t believe in this… this, hogwash!”

Bran lifted his shoulder, straightening his body, looking almost lordly as he looked Arya straight in the eye. “I saw it.”

“Oh, you saw it?” Arya huffed, shaking her head in disbelief.

“In a vision. The Three Eyed Raven had been trying to train me to see.”

Arya gave him a thunderous look. “Do not do this now, Bran. Or I swear to the old Gods…”

“They were wed. Lyanna bore Rhaegar a son. Aunt Lyanna was lying in a pool of her own blood, dying and she had begged father to protect him.”

Sansa started, realizing something. “Father had always been faithful to mother.” 

“ _What_?” Arya looked at her, suddenly losing her interest in arguing with Bran.

She looked at Arya, her jaws aching as she tried to swallow down her tears. “Father had never betrayed mother. He protected Jon even though it meant that everyone thought he had dishonored her. Father had chosen his family over honor.” Sansa thought if her lady mother had ever found out, she would’ve loved father more, she would’ve understood. Father should not have underestimated Catelyn’s Stark ability to love and forgive. That was, more than anything, the biggest mistake her father had ever made.

Arya looked at her long and hard, a variety of emotions flickering through her face, before she finally, tiredly sat down, all of her anger seemed to have bled out of her. “Seven fucking hells.” She muttered to herself.

Sansa almost reprimanded her for her language but they remained quiet, forming a strange tableau: Sam nervously hugging a large book, Bran back to wordlessly staring at the fire, Arya dejectedly rubbing her face with her hands and Sansa sitting so still, she might as well have been a stature.

Sam cleared his throat, the sound making them all jump in surprise. “Sorry.” He muttered quickly, before gathering his courage and asking them: “What are we going to do now?”

What are they going to do? Sansa had to be very careful with whatever they decide to do next. She briefly heard Littlefinger whispering to her the many enemies coming to Winterfell, everyone with their own agenda, everyone willing to sacrifice something or someone all to gain their hearts desires: power, money and gold, lands, titles, a kingdom to rule, love. She took a deep breath, wringing her hands. "No one is to know. Whatever was said in this room must remain in this room. Jon must now know."

Sam started to protest, but Sansa cut him off with a raised hand. "Not yet. We will tell Jon, but only after we're certain." She turned to look at Bran. "I'm sorry Bran, I believe you. I know that you are not lying, that you did see all of these in a vision, but we need more than that. It would be cruel if we tell Jon about his true parentage without any proof. If we are to tell him, he must not have to question it's truth." She bit her lips, an idea suddenly forming in her mind. "Sam, I want you to write to the Citadel. I want an official document from them confirming the authenticity of this book and its content."

Sam immediately paled, he gasped as though he was in physical pain. “You want  _me_  to write to the Citadel about the book I  _stole_?”

Arya rolled her eyes. "Yous stole this book?!"

"Sam, we need something to back this claim. This book will not be enough. I'm sure you already understand what this all means, Sam. Jon is a Targaryen Prince. He has as much right to the Iron Throne as Daenerys."

Arya scoffed loudly. "No he doesn't. The Rebellion had ended the Targaryen's rule. Neither Jon nor Daenerys has any right to the throne. If we want to truly follow the line of succession, it should go to the Baratheons."

"There are no more Baretheons left, Arya. Stannis and Renly are both dead. Reny does not have an heir. Stannis's daughter had been burned to death as some sort of sacrifice." Sansa's voice had lowered to a sad whisper. "Davos had never told Jon the whole story but House Baratheon is no more." 

"No, that's not entirely right." Bran mumbled.

Arya groaned out loud. "Bran, honestly! I've had enough of your visions!"

Bran shrugged and spoke no more. Sansa briefly wondered why Bran chose to not to engage Arya on this one. Of course, there were bastard sons and daughters of Robert, but could a bastard truly rise to become a King? Or Queen? She thought of Jon and frowned, suddenly reminded that there were far more important things to do than arguing about the Iron Throne's line of succession. 

"I need that letter Sam." Sansa insisted. "And anything else that might help us prove this claim."

Sam defeated and on the verge of tears nodded his head before hiding the book inside his cloak and quickly leaving the room. 

"Howland Reed." Bran announced, "He knows the truth. He was with father at the Tower of Joy when father found Aunt Lyanna and took Jon."  

Sansa felt her heart nervously stuttering. An actual witness can change everything. No one will be able to question Jon's parentage with an actual witness _and_ verified documents from the Citadel. "Will you be able to go to the Greywater Watch? He has kept quiet all these years and he isn't likely to talk to anyone. But maybe you can convince him."

Bran considered this for a moment. He closed his eyes, his breathing suddenly becoming slow and shallow. It was like he was sleeping and Sansa very nearly shook him awake when opened his eyes and told her that Howland Reed was already on his way to Winterfell.

"How---I, is that how it works?" She asked and then shook her head. "Never mind. I'm sure it would be something too complicated to explain and I wouldn't understand it anyway."

Bran gave her an almost affectionate smile that squeezed at her heart. "You've thought of everything, Sansa. Mother will be proud."

Sansa felt tears prickling her eyes and silently thanked Bran with a gentle pat on his head, slightly ruffling his hair. He will always be her younger brother, no matter how changed he was, and while she had failed to protect Rickon, she will do everything in her power to make sure that Bran will always be safe. She made the same vow for Arya, even though she was aware of how capable Arya is of taking care of herself. And Jon, too. They were all her responsibility now. She still believed that no one can truly protect anyone, but it doesn't meant that one couldn't try. And try she will. With everything that she had learned from the time she had left Winterfell until she had taken it back. Sansa was and will always be stronger within the walls of Winterfell. All she had to do was to believe in it and trust herself and her siblings.They were all that she needed. "Until we have the letter and Howland Reed's confirmation, we must keep this as a secret. We will tell Jon when the time is right. He has the right to know the absolute truth. We owe him that."

Arya let out a long, deep sigh. “It doesn’t change anything. Jon is still my brother. I don’t care what the book says or what Bran saw or what father did. Jon will always be my brother.”

Sansa nodded her head. “Jon is still a Stark. He has Aunt Lyanna blood. He may have a Targaryen father, but he grew up as a Northerner. He grew up here in Winterfell, as father’s son. He served at the Wall before his brothers betrayed him.” Sansa swallowed, the more she thought about it, the more confident she was that Jon wasn’t in any danger in the North. “The Northerners will accept him. It might take a great deal of convincing, but it would not be a truly difficult task. Jon had led the North in taking Winterfell back from the Boltons---” Sansa licked her lips. Yes, it’s going to be a challenge, but Sansa was certain the Northerners will accept him as Lyanna Stark’s son. The son that Lord Eddard Stark had protected at all cost, until his last dying breath.

 _And... and if not... there is always that one option..._ Sansa shook her head. One problem at a time. There was no need to think too far ahead. 

Sansa's only immediate concern was Daenerys. Will the Dragon Queen be just as accepting? Will she let go of her claim and let Jon sit in the Iron Throne? Will she believe Jon if he declines and tells her he does not wish to rule the Seven Kingdom? Will she let him make the choice between The North and The South? Stark and Targaryen? Because Jon had too chose. There was no possible way that he could have both worlds. He could not be a Targaryen and expect the North to love him still as they bent their knees and renounce their freedom and independence. Jon could not be Stark and expect the Dragon Queen to give up The North, not when Daenerys is bent on ruling all seven kingdoms.

Sansa tried, but she couldn't find a middle ground. Would his one remaining Targaryen family let him follow his heart's desire, whatever it may be? They have no way of knowing. But Sansa was certain of one thing, the threat will not come from the North. Not when she and Arya and Bran are still alive. The lone wolf dies, but the pack survives. No harm will ever come to Jon as long as they were all together. They were stronger together. That was what father had always taught them. 

Sansa rose from her seat feeling equal parts determined and terrified. “We will do what father had done all his life.” She paused to look at Bran and Arya, who both wordlessly nodded their heads in understanding. “We will protect Jon.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay. So sorry for the late update. I think I might have bitten off more than I can chew and writing this chapter has been a real challenge. I hate re-reading whatever I posted because I'd keep finding mistakes and errors and it's an endless hopeless act of editing and re-editing and ugh. Anyway, thank you so much in advance for reading. I hope you can let me know what you think and help me along with this fic.


	3. kiss me to shut me up

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaime Lannister was still on his knees. Waiting. A blade can come down and cut off his head and he would have to keep still and fight off the instinct to live. It could be a test. It could be for real. He’d never really know, would he? And so he patiently waited for the verdict: Life or Death. Last chance at redemption or the end of his life.

So four months ago, I had this crazy Idea of how I wanted Season 8 to go down and posted it on tumblr, which you can read [here](http://graceverse.tumblr.com/post/166102327143/what-if). 

Also, the first part of this chapter is an extended version of an old fic titled, [Kingslayer. Queen Protector](http://graceverse.tumblr.com/post/165860198278/kingslayer-queen-protector). Looks like this fic is going to be a combination of some of my older Jonsa one-shots from my tumblr. So if you feel like you've somehow read something before, then that's probably why :) 

* * *

 

**Jaime**

Jaime Lannister was still on his knees. Waiting. A blade can come down and cut off his head and he would have to keep still and fight off the instinct to live. It could be a test. It could be for real. He’d never really know, would he? And so he patiently waited for the verdict: Life or Death. Last chance at redemption or the end of his life.

“Well, this is interesting.” This was from the younger Stark, the calm one. She had the same looks as her father, the great honorable Eddard Stark.

Jaime decided that it wasn’t a direct question and it would be safest if he remained silent. He remembered Arya as the eager young girl wearing a soldier’s helmet, squeezing herself between her siblings as they lined up to greet Robert and Cersei: Robb. Sansa. Arya. Brandon. Rickon. The eldest and the youngest both dead, the middle children had survived.

How odd, Jaime thought, that he could so clearly recall their names and how they had been as children. It as if he was suddenly transported back to that very morning when they had arrived at Winterfell. Arya Stark had been the most excited to meet Tyrion and Jaime found her impishness ridiculous and tiresome. He had guessed that she was Ned’s favored daughter; he would not have let her run so wild if it wasn’t the case.

Jaime met Arya’s eyes, just as he had that day and found that it no longer held the playful, curious glint. She looked absolutely serene and inexplicably, it made Jaime shiver despite the warm heat coming from the hearth behind him. He’d seen the same cool and deadly expression on someone’s face but he could not remember whose it had been. Perhaps Lord Eddard Stark had looked at him this way? Or his son, Robb Stark. Most probably, his own father had given him this same mien. Tywin very rarely exploded in fits of anger and raised his voice. If he was displeased with anyone, he’d give you a long hard look of pure quiet contempt.

There was something unnerving about Arya’s long solemn face. It held nothing for him to decipher; her body language was completely devoid of any tension. She held her hands clasped in front of her, a perfect picture of nonchalance. She didn’t seem particularly bothered that he had chosen to kneel in front of her sister. Jaime had not meant any disrespect, but he couldn’t possibly swear three vows to the three remaining Stark children, it would have been tiring, not to mention silly.

“You pushed Bran out of the window.”

Another statement that did not require his reply. Jaime didn’t ask how she found out. How they all found out. Perhaps Bran remembered. Perhaps he should have talked to him first and had not immediately declared his allegiance to the Lady of Winterfell, pledging his life and sword. That would have probably made more sense and Jaime briefly cursed himself for not having planned this more thoroughly. He should not have trusted Brienne when she told him that The Starks weren’t blood thirsty brutes out for revenge. She clearly was not made aware of all the atrocities his family had committed against the Starks, all in the name of saving their royal asses.

Jaime let out a sigh. This could actually be the shortest pledge of life in the History of Westeros, but he has already taken a chance and he’ll be damned if he backed down over a sin he had knowingly committed. He glanced up at the boy he had harmed. Jaime had hoped that the fall had killed him instantly, he hadn’t wanted for him to linger and suffer, to become a cripple. He had taken away the boy’s chance at living a normal life, a life of honor and duty and knighthood. A hand for a pair of legs. Did that seem fair enough to the Starks? But that wasn’t right either. He could still hold a sword, could still fight. They were both broken but to compare his golden hand to Bran’s useless legs would be a grave insult. Jaime had condemned the young lord in a chair, an invalid for life but Bran Stark didn’t seem to remember him at all; he looked at Jaime with empty eyes. There was nothing in his face, no spark of recognition, no look of contempt, no judgment, no pity, nothing.

That little boy used to have sweetness in him. Jaime had seen it when he had briefly, cruelly pulled Bran inside the tower, the sweet relief that had filled his eyes, only to darken and disappear when he realized that he was falling. So much emotion in his young face, so open and trusting and now, he looked like a living statue. Perhaps more appropriately, a ghost inside the room.

There was something unsettling at how the Stark children seemed to have learned to keep their faces so utterly blank, their expressions so closely guarded. War had taught them that. War had turned the Starks into imperious versions of what they had been years ago. The same eyes, the same rigid spine and upturned noses, chin proudly jutting out. No doubt they had grown up knowing they were better than the foolish cads living south of Riverrun, Southern fools and their summer songs and seven gods. With the exception of Sansa Stark, they had all probably looked down on the genteel life at the royal court: Lords and Ladies that had seen nothing but plentiful harvests, gallant Knights who knew only of tourneys and mock fights for hands of rich, beautiful women wearing summer gowns.  

They had not been prepared for the power hungry viciousness of Kings Landing. And when they have tasted violence and despair, they have grown resilient, more protective of each other. Tywin, may the seven bless his father’s soul, had tried to bring House Stark to its knees; instead, it had risen stronger than ever. 

Forgive me father, Jaime thought. He was sure that not even in Tywin’s worst imagining did he ever thought of his own son kneeling down in front of Eddard Stark’s children, awaiting judgment. He closed his eyes, the throbbing headache he had been feeling ever since he had rode away from Kings Landing finally exploding inside his skull.

“Do you deny it?”

Finally, a question that he could answer.

“No. I do not. I had to. I was protecting Cersei. I was protecting myself. I was protecting our children. I would have done the same thing if it happened again.” No need to feed them lies. Lying to them will only mean a surer, more ghastly kind of death.

“And yet, here you are asking me to trust you, not just with my life, but everyone in Winterfell.”

He looked up, meeting the eyes of the girl his son had tormented years ago. Except this wasn’t a girl anymore, but a Queen made. Had his son shaped her too? Jaime was sure that Joffrey’s cruelty had left deep scars on Sansa Stark. Had the warm-hearted naïve girl turned into ice? Cold and hard and bitter. Will she remember to be kind when kindness was never granted her?

“You bring no army. No provisions for winter. No weapons. You bring nothing but words and words are wind.” 

Still on his knees. Gods, these Starks, they certainly do like him groveling. They had always been wary of anyone not born in the miserable cold. How had he forgotten about that? Did he truly expect it to be easy and that Sansa Stark would joyously accept him with open arms and a grateful smile? “Apologies my Lady, if I came empty handed. You are right; I have nothing to offer you but information.”

Sansa raised her eyebrows and beside her, Arya suddenly smiled. A slow satisfied smile that felt like a decision has already been made. Information wasn’t a valuable bargaining tool, once he had delivered the truth of Cersei’s plan, he will be of no use to them and they could easily resolve to kill him for his crimes. At which point, at least Jaime had been able to warn them. It wasn’t the glorious end he had planned, he’d probably become a small footnote in the great history of The War Against The Dead: _Jamie Lannister, heroically rode to Winterfell and was promptly sentenced to death._

It would still be better than being a traitor to the whole realm. Jaime took a deep breath. “Cersei will not hold the end of her bargain. The Armistice means nothing to her. She plans on employing The Golden Company---” He heard Brienne’s gasp from behind and he continued, “Euron Greyjoy and my sister have tricked the Dragon Queen and your King. Greyjoy is not going to retreat like a coward; he is sailing now, as we speak and he might have already paid the Golden Company, using the gold we have taken from Highgarden. He will bring Cersei’s army into Westeros. Cersei will wait for the dragons and the wights to destroy each other, hopefully, the North with them and whatever that survives and heads South, she intends to fight it with the army that she bought.”

Brienne snarled. “Your sister is such a conniving traitorous bitch.”

Jaime turned towards her and grimaced, “I’m afraid she might take that as compliment.”

Sansa stepped forward. He saw a flicker of distraught in her eyes but she had schooled her features once again. “That could easily be checked, good ser. We will know the truth of your words soon enough.” She glanced at Bran who gave a small nod.

Jaime was momentarily distracted by this statement and the strange exchange between Sansa and Bran. He followed Bran’s line of vision, but could not understand what answers the stone wall could provide him. How could they  _know_ for certain if he was telling the truth?

 _Visions_. Brienne had called it. Was Bran able to see things at will? If that was the case, then why on earth was he still on his knees if the boy could perceive his sincerity? If that was indeed how it worked.

“How do I know you didn’t come here, on Cersei’s command to start a war between The North and the Dragon Queen?” Sansa asked, pulling him out of his strange musing.

Her blue eyes were so filled with distrust, Jaime almost flinched at her stare, but he was also tired of this game and his annoyance got the best of him when he brazenly muttered: “My Lady, but you mistake me for your bastard half-brother.”

Even Brienne heard him. She let out a long suffering sigh of displeasure which almost made him smile. Jaime didn’t actually know what was going on between Daenerys Targaryen and Jon Snow, but he had sensed the uneasy alliance between the two. This merging of forces between the Targaryen Princess and The North could not have been held together by just their common hatred of Cersei or the dead wights marching towards the Kingdom. Daenerys had burned the Lannister soldiers she had captured, including Lord Randall and his son, all for not bending their knees. An empty gesture, all things considered, since allegiances are easily switched with or without bending the knees. Tywin had already proved that when colluded with the Boltons and the Freys during the Red Wedding. Both houses had bent their knees to the Young Wolf. Both houses had declared him their King. And both houses betrayed Robb Stark. Clearly no one was paying any attention to the lessons Tywin Lannister was trying to teach the realm. 

Daenerys would not have willingly worked together with Jon Snow without gaining something and what else could Jon Snow have given to appease her? The bloody fucking North. Which wasn’t even his to give away, to begin with. It didn’t take a genius to figure this all out. Tyrion might think that he was some sort of political savant but Jaime had known how his father had conspired with the Boltons. It isn’t exactly the same of course, but it has the same feel to it. Tywin didn’t want to give the North away, especially not when Tyrion was married to Sansa, but he had to ‘pretend’ to allow the Boltons to have it. The Boltons would not have withstood the Lannister army should his father finally decide to take Winterfell back. Of course, Tywin did not account the fact that he would be dead before winter, making him unable to besiege the Boltons inside Winterfell. But ah well, that was all in the past now. And anyway, Jaime had seen the way the Targaryen girl had looked at Snow and how Jon Snow had _not_ looked at her.

It should complicate matters at best. At worst, Jon Snow could be facing the wrath of a giant fire breathing lizard for jilting its mother. But Jaime probably should not have said anything; it didn’t do him any favors as obvious when Sansa remained unmoved. He seemed to have angered her, when moments ago she had only been doubtful.  

“I had my sister slit the throat of the person who whispered such poison in my ear.”

It was a fair warning. One Jaime wasn’t going to take lightly. Sansa Stark might have learned Queenship from Cersei and Margery, but she clearly had not forgotten the words of her mother’s house. _Family. Duty. Honor._ In that order. He had just forsaken all three and Sansa no doubt was making a point, without saying anything. She’d make a fine Queen, and Jaime wondered why she isn’t one already.   

“Forgive me, Lady Sansa, I meant it as a joke. Only a fool would try to sow disorder within your house.” He tilted his head and winced, “How long shall I kneel and wait for your answer? I’m afraid my knees are not the same as when I had been younger. Old age, you know.”

Brienne let out an impressive oath and Jaime couldn’t help the wicked grin escaping his lips. Once, he would have been surprised at Brienne’s outbursts but not anymore. He rather liked her expressing herself so freely. He had wrongly underestimated her before, mistakenly placing her on a pedestal she certainly does not want to be placed in on.  

Sansa Stark gave him a long hard look. In her eyes was the long list of the crimes inflicted upon her and her family, to which all of them she holds his family accountable. Jaime met her steel blue eyes, jaws working as he silently let her judge him. If it is death, he deserved it. If it is a second chance, he will not fail her. He had already failed so spectacularly so many times, he had lost count. And all he ever wanted, really, was for Sansa’s father, the great Ned Stark, to acknowledge that even a Kingslayer can become honorable.

“He tells the truth about the Golden Company. And he will serve you well.”

Bran. It was spoken without emotion. The words were meant to comfort Jaime and yet nothing filled him dread at the deadened voice and the _surety_ it held. He hated that. It was as though there was nothing he could hide from this boy whose life he had changed in ways he couldn’t even begin to fathom. He felt completely stripped off everything as soon as Bran spoke. The certainty of his statements were so hauntingly unnerving, Jaime almost wanted to stand up and immediately leave, no looking back, fuck honor, duty and redemption. Fuck it all.

But he knew he wouldn’t. That he’d never forsake these vows.

“If Bran says so.” Arya answered with a shrug, which was of all the things she had said and done over the course of this whole debacle, was the most threatening thing Jaime had ever seen.

 _Break your vow, I don’t care. But you’ll pay for it. Painfully. And oh, so very, very slowly._ That was clearly the message in that seemingly innocent little shrug. Jaime felt a tingling on his spine. And before he could pull himself together, he heard the gentle swish of silk against stone, as Sansa moved forward, looking terribly tall and regal. She stared down at him and then tilted her face, nodding at Brienne.

Jaime did not know what the nod meant, but he was surprised to feel a cool draft inside the room. Brienne had obviously opened the door to let someone in. Curious, he turned his face and felt his whole body stiffen, his heart growing cold and hard.

A white direwolf, with bright red eyes and almost big as a war horse, silently padded inside the room. Its shackles were not raised, fangs not bared, but it slowly circled him, tail swishing in the air. Jaime swallowed hard, his throat painfully dry. Suddenly, for the first time since he had set foot inside Winterfell, he felt real fear. This direwolf was nothing like the savage animal Robb Stark had, but just the same, it had a knowing tilt of its head and Jaime found himself staring at his own reflection, bathed in the red glow of its eyes.

He wasn’t aware that he had stopped breathing. Only when his lungs started constricting painfully did he realize how desperate he was to breathe. It was like drowning but he couldn’t even take a breath, for fear that such sudden movement would cause the direwolf to react accordingly. He would not die by sword it seemed, but by his neck being wrenched open by the sharp teeth of a direwolf. How fitting, thought Jaime thought, quite inanely. The Stark sigil hungrily drinking the blood of a lion.

The white beast sniffed at his face, its wet panting breath was so close, Jaime could see the tips of it’s massive teeth peeking from its jaw.

Fucking hell.

Jaime’s lack of air made him dizzy and his knees briefly wobbled. The direwolf seemed to have lost interest in him as it bounded towards Sansa Stark. It slowly lay down upon her feet, stretching languidly. It made low huffing sounds, Sansa’s hand lowered slowly and Jaime watched fascinated as her fingers threaded through the direwolf’s thick white fur, pulling slightly. The direwolf looked up at her, seemingly pleased with the attention and then as though sensing Jaime’s stare and the loud noise he made as he sucked in deep lungful of air, it turned and stared at him, red eyes glowing with something that could only be regarded as a silent, deadly threat.

Oh yes, food for the direwolf. That would have been his punishment if he had been insincere and had a treacherous plan. Why ever had he thought that he would be quickly, mercifully beheaded?

Before Jaime could say anything, Sansa had taken two steps forward and quietly spoke. "And I, Sansa Stark, vow that you shall always have a place by my hearth,” her voice was clear and steady, as though she has done this a thousand times and Jaime wondered, just how many knights have chosen her, if he wasn’t the first one that had laid his sword upon her feet. She knew the words, never once paused or faltered. “And meat and mead at my table, and a pledge to ask no service of you that might bring you dishonor. I swear it by the old gods and the new.” She took a deep breath, squaring her shoulders. “Arise, ser Jaime.”

Knees cracking, no longer the young Knight he once had been, Jaime could feel the rush of blood thrumming inside his veins as he stood up. A sudden sense of purpose surges through his heart and he felt strangely alive and young and capable. He glanced at Brienne and managed to let out a charming little smile.

Brienne glared at him and then rolled her eyes.  

Jaime held the pommel of his sword into a tight fist, vowing to himself, a vow upon a vow: he shall not bring dishonor to Brienne of Tarth, to Sansa Stark and her whole family, idiot bastard half-brother included, unfortunately.

Sansa’s blue eyes were still cold and hard. Her marble smooth face was suffused with wariness but she gave him a nod, before wordlessly turning around, the only indication that she will not forget, but she can forgive. Not necessarily right away. Not until he proves himself. Which he will, by gods, he will. Or die trying, at least.

Jaime Lannister straightened himself and lifted his chin, before slowly letting himself smile. Kingslayer. Queen Protector.

He rather liked the sound of that.

 

* * *

 

 

**Brienne**

 

Ever since she had left Evenfall Hall and set sail to Storm End to pledge her support to Lord Renly, Brienne of Tarth had learned two things: she had the skills that could best even the most formidable of opponents but she does not have the heart for the losses of war. Underneath her steel armor, she was still too tenderhearted. It was not just a woman’s weakness; she saw it in everyone she had encountered, everyone who had remained human, at least. War had turned so many people into monsters: it turned brothers against brothers, sons against fathers, so many mothers mourning the loss of their children. Animals were more trustworthy than desperate men and women who would stab you in the back right after you have helped them. It was disheartening. Brienne was no longer enamored by the idea of glory in war. There was no glory in it, only regret and pain and blood and tears and emptied castles filled with ghosts.

Over the years of searching for Lady Catelyn’s daughters, Brienne had seen the chaos and destruction that this war had wrought upon the land, upon the people of the kingdom, both the lowliest peasants and the most noble born. It didn’t matter whether you were the poorest in the village or the Lord of a great, fortified castle. War comes for everyone. It was an unforgiving god that took and took until there was nothing left but your own instinct for survival.

Brienne was no longer as naïve as she had been, she could not be as adept as Lady Sansa Stark in handling political situations, her strength still lies with her sword skills, but she knew now that her thirst to prove herself better than any knight in the Kingdom has already been quenched. Like everyone else, from the very end of Dorne to the last town in the North, she was tired of this war. And even if it meant gambling with the life of Jaime Lannister, a man who arouses in her so many conflicting emotions, she had brought him in Winterfell, in the hopes that it will help in finally ending all these wretched fighting.

Brienne had only been scared once in her life, when the dark shadow with Stannis’s face had drifted inside Lord Renly’s tent, stabbing him through with nothing but dark flimsy air. She did not think she will ever see something as terrifying as that. And yet when Jon Snow's massive direwolf silently circled around the bent form of Jaime Lannister, Brienne felt her whole body stiffening with fear. She had to swallow down a low moan of dread as Ghost sniffed and hovered by Jaime’s face.

The living, breathing Stark sigil, was the last to make its judgment on the fate of a lion helplessly kneeling down. It would be so easy for the direwolf to open his jaws and snap it close over Jaime’s neck, it’s long deadly teeth biting down against flesh, crushing bones and ripping open veins. And Brienne would not have been able to do anything, she would’ve stood there, gasping in painful panicked breaths, just as she had done almost a lifetime ago when she had helplessly watched Renly staggering on his feet. Brienne could still remember how she had cradled Renly in her arms, his blood soaking through her armor and tunic and into her very own skin.

Brienne had held her breath, imagining the same thing happening, only she would have to tenderly touch Jaime’s hair and tell him sorry.

_Fuck loyalty!_

What is loyalty? It is the same as love, isn't it? Faithfulness. Devotion. That sounded a lot like love. Brienne was most certain at this very moment that she did love Jaime Lannister. Not like she loved Renly, when she had been young and so full of passion, blinded by her admiration. She love Jamie in a way that allowed her to see his many sins and flaws and yet mourn him with a deep, unbearable ache that would never cease should he die.

He didn’t die of course.

As Jaime Lannister finally stood up, his shoulder briefly slumped, all the tension released in one big gasp of air, Brienne let out a sigh of relief. Jaime would still live another day. He would be given his chance to stop the madness of his sister and to finally fulfill part of his vow to Lady Catleyn Stark. He will raise his sword again, aye, but it will be to protect Catelyn Stark’s children.

Will this oath of fealty that he had sworn to Sansa Stark, a strange echo of her own oath to Lady Catelyn Stark so many years ago, change what he had done? Will it erase the atrocities he had committed in the name of his family, his love for his sister? No. It will not. It will remain a stain upon Jaime’s name. He will never become the kind of hero she had dreamt of becoming herself, but he will have the chance to live with himself without regrets. And what more could a man such as him ask for?

Jaime glanced back at her, grimacing. Brienne thought Jaime meant it to be a smile of triumph, although he probably couldn’t properly move his muscles and it came out an ugly wince of relief. If Brienne had been scared of the direwolf, she could imagine how Jaime must be feeling now. She glared at him, hoping he’d take this more seriously. This moment was truly historical: a Lannister swearing fealty to the Starks. A lion, bowing down to the wolves.

Speaking of wolves, Jon’s direwolf had sauntered over to Arya, nuzzling her opened palm, encouraging her to scratch his massive neck. Brienne will never be comfortable being anywhere near the direwolf, no matter how well behaved Ghost had been. It only ever answers to the Starks and she would be more than happy to be dismissed already and spend a quiet night in her chamber, cleaning and polishing her armor and sword.

Sansa quietly conferred with her siblings, her other hand stroking Ghost’s back, the direwolf gave another near-silent huff of delight and even Bran had glanced at it, his face becoming softer, the boyishness of his features suddenly so very evident.

Sansa finally turned her attention back to Jaime, who had now sidled up next to Brienne. “You’ll have to be escorted to the dungeons though, Ser Jaime.”

Brienne clenched her teeth.  There goes her quiet night of cleaning her iced-edged and muddied belongings.  

“ _What_?”

The disrespect was astounding and Brienne moved to elbow Jaime. He side stepped it expertly, already having felt her intention.

Sansa did not seem to mind. She shrugged, a gesture so mundane and yet so elegant, in the way she held her hands in front of her, her face completely calm. “No one knows you’re here, Ser Jaime. No one knows you’ve sworn your sword to protect us. We have to keep it that way. For _now_. Cersei will find you gone and she might assume you’ve headed North-”

“Oh she knows.” Jaime rudely interrupted. Brienne unable to stop herself, turned to look down at him, glowering.  

Arya Stark leaned forward, “You interrupt my sister one more time, _Ser_ and I will pull out your tongue. You do not need your tongue to fulfill your oath.”

There was a tense silence as Jaime grounded his teeth, unused to being treated this way, no doubt. He bowed his head, before straightening his shoulder and looking at Sansa, sincerely apologized. 

Arya seemed satisfied with that. Sansa, waved her hand dismissively. She had probably heard about Jaime’s inherent recalcitrant nature. It was nothing personal and Sansa knew it. “It’s best that we keep your presence here a secret. The Dragon Queen is on her way to Winterfell, we don’t know how she’ll react to you swearing fealty to The North.”

Jaime blinked and then with polite contrition, asked: “May I speak, my Lady?”

Arya gave a mighty roll of her eyes. “Are you always going to be a pain in the ass?”

“I beg your pardon, My Lady Arya.”

“Don’t call me that.” Arya snapped.

“Apologies. And I shan’t call you that, thank you for letting me know. I was not trying to be offensive, truly, just remembering my manners.” Jaime paused, clearly finding something about this amusing. Brienne was at the end of her patience and she wondered briefly, maybe it wasn’t love that she felt towards Jaime, but rather, pity. He seemed to never know exactly when to stop being an annoying smart ass and one day, or probably, this day, it might actually get him killed. 

Jaime seemed completely unaware of how close he had been from getting strangled to death by Arya Stark. He casually shrugged his shoulder as he spoke, “If you want to know what Daenerys Targaryen will do once she finds me here," he paused, nodding at Sansa, "a loyal knight sworn to you: she’ll probably make her dragon spit balls of fire.”

The corners of Arya’s mouth twitched and Brienne thought if the Lannisters had not waged war on the Starks, Arya might have actually enjoyed Jaime’s utter lack of regard to rules and _manners_. They were alike in that way at least.

Sansa cleared her throat. It was obvious that she did not find anything funny about dragons. She seemed to realize that she needed to be more firm with Jaime; otherwise, she will never be able to make him obey her _right away_ without any witty arguments or jibes. She did not have the patience for Jaime’s clever repartees, and Brienne realized, it might have reminded Sansa of Littlefinger, although Litterfinger had more sinister railleries than Jaime’s.  “The Northern Lords will not be as accepting as we are, I can assure you of that and it will not do you any good to be amongst them. I should have let your presence known to them and I did not. They might see that as a slight, ser Jaime and if they all asked for your head, well, it will definitely complicate matters. We do not need your services now. It will not do any of us any good if we were to flaunt you so.”

Jaime winced. “The dungeons, though?” Sounding almost like a petulant child. He probably thought it was beyond his station to be hidden in a dungeon. 

“Where else should we welcome you, ser?” Arya asked with a smirk.

Jaime seemed to ponder this for a moment, before brightening up. He bared his perfect white teeth, eyebrows arching suggestively. “Lady Brienne’s room shall be more than adequate.”

This time Brienne put her foot down. “Don’t be insolent, Lannister.”

Jaime pouted up at her but Brienne ignored him, already aware of how easily he could convince her if he continued to use that kicked-in-gut look of a poor cat. A lion pretending to be a wounded kitten was strangely amusing, though. 

Sansa has had enough of of her new sworn sword. “Arya, Bran and I have important things to discuss, Ser Jaime.”  She said, dismissing him with a curt nod of her head. “Brienne, please see to it that Ser Jaime is as comfortable as he could be.” She paused, for the first time, looking somewhat unsure of what to say next. Sansa gave Brienne a small, encouraging smile instead, “Wherever you choose to keep him hidden, I’ll leave it for you to decide.”

Brienne had to stop herself from groaning out loud. This was highly embarrassing and she was going to make sure that she will deposit Jaime in the filthiest part of the dungeon as punishment for his stupidity. She bowed respectfully at the Starks and pushed Jaime out of the door. “Off you go.”

“You are bringing me to your chambers, right?” Jaime asked as soon as she had closed the door.

“Shut up.”

“Oh. Gods. _No_. I can understand the Starks being cautious and not announcing my decision to change sides but this is ridiculous.”

Brienne walked on, letting Jaime follow her. She stopped by the door of her room only to snatch the torch that had lighted the hallway. “It’s rather ingenious, I say. They get to still put you in the dungeon.”

Jaime had seemed to realize that too and he sighed, grimacing at what would be a long night for him. “I see I haven’t changed your mind about that.” He said as they walked away from the closed door of her chambers.

They were silent for a few minutes as they carefully walked about the castle. Dinner had finished hours ago and most of the Northern Lords and castle servants have retired to their tents, in the kitchen or the great halls. They were probably trying to warm themselves on the fires that were kept burning all day long. The chimneys in the surrounding buildings were still releasing a continuous stream of grey-white smoke, visible in the darkened sky.  

“Did you know about the direwolf?” Jaime suddenly asked.

Brienne shushed him. The man was incapable of shutting up. He trotted rather glumly beside her, no doubt already imagining the miserable state he’d be in once she left him in the dungeons. She did wish there was some place where she could hide him, except her room of course, but the dungeon _was_ a smart idea. If Jaime was discovered there, well, he was already in the dungeon, surely no Northerner will ever grumble about that. And if they happen to encounter anyone on their way to the dungeon, Brienne would not be lying if she told them that she was ordered to escort a prisoner to his cell.

“You could have warned me.” There was an accusing note in Jaime’s voice and Brienne could feel her lips curling in a small smile of amusement.

“Did you almost piss on yourself?” She asked, mercilessly teasing him. This was rather new. She was always the one being teased and she never enjoyed it one bit. She liked how the tables had been turned.

Jaime chuckled beside her. “Ah! Finally, something that you find amusing.”

“They make the decisions together. Not just Sansa. Or Arya. Or Bran.” Brienne said as she quickly led him outside the main castle. The biting cold surprised her for a moment as she stepped outside. She could never get used to this kind of cold, like sharp lancing pain against skin and muscles and bones. She tightened her coat around her and hurried on, the slush of snow as she briskly walked was the only sound in the quiet night.

She sensed Jaime thoughtfully nodding his head. “I suppose the direwolf represents their father.”

Jaime had a strange fascination with Eddard Stark, she was aware of this. She felt the need to inform Jaime as much as she could, given that he will be staying in the dungeon indefinitely. They were keeping their voices low and looking around, it seemed like there were the only one senseless enough to be out in this cold winter night. “It’s Jon Snow’s direwolf, actually.”

Jaime was too surprised, he stopped in his tracks. Brienne turned to glare at him. It was too fucking cold and she had no wish to dilly dally.

“Interesting, that.” Jaime answered as he hurried up to her. “Did it stand as a judge when they executed Littlefinger?”

Brienne had lost count of the many times she had scowled at Jaime. It was her turn to stop abruptly and Jaime almost collided into her. “Why do you ask that? Why do you ask these kinds of questions?” She asked irritably. 

Jaime was unperturbed. “Unless you tell me otherwise, I’m assuming the direwolf hated Littlefinger.”

Brienne raised her eyebrows, taking a step back, receiving the full impact of the shrewd expression on Jaime’s face. “Ghost chewed off Pety’s shoes. All of them, in fact. And he once peed on the door of Littlefinger’s chamber.”

Jaime innocuously blinked up at her, tilting his head and looking slightly baffled. “Ghost? Whose ghost? Surely not Ned Stark’s. That kind of childish folly would be beneath him.”

Brinned was confused. What on earth was Jaime talking about?! “Ghost is the direwolf’s name.” She said in a clipped voice as she hurriedly walked straight through the kennels, now empty of hounds, and then stepped down the stone arch and into the dungeons. It was definitely colder here. Brienne stopped as she used the torch to light up the hallway leading to dungeon. She noticed Jaime was standing beside her, looking up at her face, his eyes merrily crinkling. He was grinning at her. His annoying shit-eating-grin that made Brienne want to either punch him in the face or... or... exasperated, Brienned realized she had walked in on that and that she wasn’t nearly as good as she thought she was in teasing Jaime.

“You’re insufferable!” She declared instead.

“You love me this way.” Jaime quipped. For a man who had been adamantly refusing to spend the night here, he looked awfully happy.  

Brienne supposed that at least here, he would not have to worry about bandits or wild animals attacking him. She frowned at Jaime, wondering if she should remind him of his current status. “Turncloak. The Northerners will call you that. Like Theon Greyjoy.”

He considered this quietly, shaking his head. “ _Jaime Turncloak_. Doesn’t have a nice ring to it. I was thinking, Queen Protector, actually. Jaime Lannister, Queen Protector.”

Brienne huffed in annoyance, slowing down her pace to check each cell, making sure that there were no prisoners inside. There was hardly any reason for prisoners to be here. Everyone had surprisingly accepted Sansa’s authority and no fights had broken over the Northerners and the Wildlings or the Wildling and the Knights of the Vale. Perhaps they’d seen the foolishness of fighting amongst themselves when they could all barely survive the cold and the carefully rationed provisions. Energy was saved for more important tasks. “Lady Sansa is not a queen.”

Jaime shrugged. “Not yet, she isn’t.”

Satisfied that there was no one else inside the dungeon, Brienne chose the second to the middle cell. Not too close to the entrance as to be easily spotted, but far enough to discourage anyone from looking further. That is if they weren’t ordered to actually look for someone. She swept her torch around the cell. “You do realize that your clever quips aren’t going to impress the Northern Lords.”

“I’m not trying to impress them.”

Brienne sighed. It was exhausting talking to Jaime, she'd forgotten about that. “Then shut up. And stay here for a while and let me try to figure out where you’d be safe from being discovered.” She could only think of one other place where Jaime could hide.

“The dungeon is fine.” Jaime said, grumbling in defeat.

Brienne looked down at him, raising her eyebrows and as though reading his mind, she gave him another teasing smile. “Oh. You’re afraid of the crypts beneath Winterfell, is that it?”

Jaime glared at her. “Will you at least ask your squire to bring me some food and ale, a straw mattress and perhaps some thick fur blankets? It’s freezing down there.”

“Would you like a throne too?” Brienne asked, scoffing at the Jaime’s demand.

“A feather bed is more my liking.” He gave her one of those bright smiles that made him look so intolerably handsome. It annoyed Brienne so much.

“Do you know what your problem is?” She asked, not expecting to receive a proper answer and Jaime did not disappoint her.

“I don’t think I have one, Brienne. I’m perfectly fine, thank you.”

Always so self-assured, Brienne wondered if Jaime had ever felt any kind of insecurity. She’d like to discover that. “You talk too much.” She said instead, gently shoving him inside his cell. She closed the iron bars and with surprising relish, she locked the door. She had planned on giving Jaime her own version of a triumphant smile, but something in the way he was looking at her made her change her mind. 

“You ought to kiss me to shut me up.” Jaime kept his body pressed against the iron bars. He looked at Brienne in an almost challenging manner, his voice was low and warm.

Brienne boldly leaned forward, bending her head a little so that the tips of her nose practically touched Jaime’s. “Good night, Ser Jaime.” She mumbled quickly, thankful for the darkness. She could feel her neck and cheeks heating up, despite the cold. She stepped back, giving Jaime one last look before walking away. She would have to send Podrick here with all of Jaime’s request. It was the least she could do after she had urged him to ride North.  

“Good night, my Lady.” She heard him say and Brienne thought that perhaps, she would not be spending a quiet night in her chambers as well. She would probably end up worrying about Jaime in the dungeon and she cursed herself for still being so tenderhearted.


	4. needlework

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arya Stark, daughter of the North, shivered as she clambered up the battlements. She pulled her coat tighter around her shoulder and took deep breaths, letting the cold air fill her lungs. Colder now, since yesterday, and it will be colder tomorrow too, she was certain of that. The freezing wind will only become worst in the days to come until it would feel like blue-lit flames burning her skin. But Starks were hard men and women during hard times. She will endure.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Arya's part turned out longer than I had initially planned so there's only one person POV for this chapter. Apologies for the late update, real life has been crazy. Thank you in advance for reading! Hope you enjoy this update.

So four months ago, I had this crazy Idea of how I wanted Season 8 to go down and posted it on tumblr, which you can read [here](http://graceverse.tumblr.com/post/166102327143/what-if)

* * *

 

**Arya**

Arya Stark, daughter of the North, shivered as she clambered up the battlements. She pulled her coat tighter around her shoulder and took deep breaths, letting the cold air fill her lungs. Colder now, since yesterday, and it will be colder tomorrow too, she was certain of that. The freezing wind will only become worst in the days to come until it would feel like blue-lit flames burning her skin. But Starks were hard men _and_ women during hard times. She will endure.

Arya had started coming up here the same day that Sansa had welcomed her. They had thrown their arms around each and it was like finding a missing piece of herself, like a broken rib righting itself and for the first time in years Arya was able to breathe without wincing, without her heart guiltily beating inside her chest. She wasn’t the only one who had survived. Sansa had found her way back to Winterfell and there was nothing more wonderful than being violently crushed inside her sister’s embrace.

And even if it didn’t make Arya feel whole and healed, the ache inside her core had significantly lessened; warmth blossomed within her, it was wonderful and precious and permanent, not some fleeting hopefulness that had mocked her all those many instances when she was just an arm’s length, a few day’s journey away from her mother and Robb, or Jon.

Their father’s statue had looked down upon their bittersweet reunion. It brought a new fresh kind of hurt that clawed and clung onto her skin. A reminder of everything and everyone she had lost, but it didn’t matter, Arya can withstand any kind of pain now. She was home. Finally.

* * *

On her first night in Winterfell, Sansa had walked her to her room, quietly handing her something dark and perfectly folded. “These are Bran’s. He’s out grown them.  I wasn’t sure if you have anything else to wear.”

She did not miss the slight twitching of Sansa’s nose. Arya _had_ been wearing the same clothes for days on end and she probably smelled filthy. She looked down at the garment, arms stiffly by her side.  “What happened to him?” She asked in a low, careful voice, remembering how Bran had looked at her like she was a complete stranger. His deep blue eyes were empty and he had nothing to say to her, not even to welcome her back or even call out her name. He had merely nodded his head and remained so quiet and still, if his eyes had not been opened, Arya would have thought him asleep.

Sansa bit her lip, shook her head. “I don’t know. Bran sees and says things I don’t understand. About being the Three Eyed Raven, and The Night King, and the Children of the Forest.”

“Old Nan’s tales.” Arya whispered, startled at the frightened quiver in her voice.

Sansa sighed, a deep, tired and melancholic exhale, her shoulder despondently dropping. “I wish Jon were here. He’d know what Bran is talking about.”

This wasn’t the first time Sansa had mentioned Jon’s name in that tone of voice, something that spoke of familiarity, a kind of intimacy that was still new, still being explored, a cautious, searching lilt in her voice. Arya wished it too, of course. Although she was certain she wished it differently as Sansa did. Sansa probably saw Jon as her savior, someone who will protect her, who will lay down his sword upon her feet, swearing his life and loyalty. Like a knight of her childhood dream, someone who would do all the fighting for her as she sat in her chair, like a Queen. That made sense, her sister had never truly recognized Jon as their brother the way Arya did.

She could not help the nagging thought that somehow, Sansa had made feel Jon unwelcomed in Winterfell and that was why he wasn’t here now to welcome her with the fiercest, most heart wrenching hug. Had Sansa ordered him away because the North had declared Jon their King and not Sansa, Eddard Stark’s true born daughter?

Arya felt torn. Bran would not be a fit ruler, not with how he was acting right now, spaced out and barely even present. Rickon was dead. They’d talked briefly about their baby brother. The last time she had seen him, Rickon was barely a child and Arya could not remember the exact color of his hair. Thinking about Rickon was just as painful as thinking of father and mother. She had asked about Hodor and Summer and Shaggydog. Sansa had bit her lips, shook her head and that was that. Arya did not need nor want all the gory details.

And although Sansa would be the next rightful heir, Arya wasn’t sure how good of a leader her sister would be. She realized with a start that even though she loved Sansa, even though she had missed her, had longed to see her, had fervently wished and prayed for her safety, Arya didn’t know her – not this Sansa who stood tall and elegant and more beautiful than she could ever remember. Not this Sansa who Jon had trusted the North with. 

Unsure of what else to say, Arya took the proffered tunic and unable to help herself, buried her nose into the fabric, hungrily inhaling the long-ago boyish scent of Bran: crushed leaves and sharp, cool, clean fresh air.

“Thank you, Sansa. Good night.” Arya murmured before hurrying inside her room and closing the door, heart thudding inside her chest. Something about her sister felt alien and wrong and Arya hated not being able to understand how Sansa could so easily slip into the role that once belonged to their mother, like it was her second skin, like it was meant to be hers all along despite growing up and being trained to be a suitable wife of some powerful Lord that would offer a strong political tie and hopefully, happiness, such as what their own mother had achieved. Sansa had been meant to become a Lady of a grand castle, maybe even Queen, but not as the Lady of Winterfell, and certainly not as Jon’s trusted second hand.

Arya felt oddly jealous.

* * *

Her first week home, Arya had trouble sleeping. She couldn’t keep still and empty out her mind. She thought of Jon in Dragonstone, of Sansa, of Petyr Baelish standing by the shadows, casually listening and observing as though he belonged in Winterfell, of Brienne who regarded her kindly but warily, of Bran who kept to himself, spending most of his time locked up inside his chambers, like a hollowed ghost too tired to haunt the castle. She thought of Nymeria, Hot Pie and occasionally, silver-quick, she thought of Gendry – she wondered how they were doing, if they were still alive, if she could somehow make all of them come live in Winterfell, perhaps they could make her feel more at home.

Arya hated the broken down towers, the gaping holes in the Guards Hall. The crumbled missing stone steps on the Library Tower didn’t make her feel any better. They looked like empty, eyeless sockets, crooked punched-out teeth. Arya hated the way Theon and the Boltons have left marks of their treachery. All the wounds Winterfell had to bear, displayed for her to see. She wanted it all gone, magically repaired. She hated her room too. It smelled like dust, stale air, musty and forgotten, as though it had been sealed off from time and inside, hiding somewhere was her younger self. Young Arya Underfoot. Arya Horseface. She remembered that girl, she _was_ that girl. But that girl did not slit throats, skinned and cut sons to feed them to their father.

Ridiculously afraid of her own ghost, Arya would wander around the castle, feeling downhearted. This wasn’t the Winterfell that she had reminisced and fervently dreamed of coming back to. For one, it was darker colder than she had remembered. Had it always been this blue-black dark? In her mind, the castle had always been bathed in the yellow light of autumn, warm and welcoming. Now, every empty room and hallways were dark caverns, painted in the sorrowful shades of regret, grey and shadowy. The towers too were no longer as soaring, not in the same way that had once made her stretch her neck, straining to see its very tip. The arches seemed shorter, lower. It was as if Winterfell had shrunk.

Arya had the sudden, ridiculous urge to cry when she found herself staring at the bare walls along the Great Hall. She remembered the many tapestries hanging inside the castle and it annoyed her that she would have such a potent reaction over something as foolish and useless. But she couldn’t help wondering what had happened to her mother’s Tully Blue curtains. Were they pulled down and burned, replaced by the sigils of the treacherous Greyjoys and then afterwards, the ruthless Boltons?

She’d heard of what had happened since they had left and she knew how Winterfell had been ruined and pillaged by their enemies. Sansa had told her what had happened to Theon --- _Reek_ \--- he had been called and Arya supposed there was some justice to how he had been so thoroughly ruined by Ramsay.

 _Ramsay._ Another name her sister had mentioned in a strained and strangled way, Sansa’s lovely face deathly pale, hardening as she clenched her jaws. Her sister whispered the name like it was a curse and Arya sensed that there was more to the story than Sansa was telling her. She didn’t demand her sister to tell her more, she hadn’t said anything about her own experiences and Sansa hadn’t asked her. She could sense that Sansa _wanted_ to ask, but she always hesitated and Arya understood that Sansa was waiting for her to share her own secrets. Arya didn’t know how, didn’t know where to start so she kept her walls up, wary and ashamed and defiant all at once.

* * *

One evening, Sansa came to her room, unannounced carrying an armful of heavy winter clothes. Arya’s expression must not have been friendly; she watched as her sister reluctantly paused, bracing herself before straightening her back and without a word, gracefully shoved a multitude of grey-white garments in front of Arya’s upturned nose.

“What are these?” Arya asked and immediately regretted the disdainful tone in her voice but she couldn’t help it. She had watched Littlefinger follow Sansa around one too many times that some of the initial anger and suspicion she felt towards Baelish had inevitably transferred to her seemingly still painfully naïve sister.

“I’m making new clothes for you,” Sansa kept her voice carefully cheerful. “From my old winter ones. I made Bran’s from Robb’s and I --- well there’s no sense in throwing all those clothes away, it would be such a sorry waste to not use them.” The more she explained, the quieter her voice had gotten, suddenly sounding and looking unsure. “They’re not yet finished, see?”

Arya couldn’t tell. She wasn’t sure what she was supposed to say. Giving her Bran’s clothes was different from Sansa actually making one for her. And not just one, from the looks of it.

“I still need to measure you. I can estimate your size, but it won’t be a good fit and so… well, if you want them, that is?”

Arya watched her sister’s face. Sansa Stark. Lady of Winterfell, so very tall and beautiful and regal. Arya had kept a safe distance from her, thinking it best that she observe everyone in the castle first, before letting her guard down. She had watched Sansa commanding their people, taking care of them and making almost all of the important decisions. Sansa would refer to Maester Wolkan, seek the counsel of the older Lords of the North, ask advice from Lord Royce and when it concerned the wildlings, she’d go to their camp, guarded always by Brienne, to discuss thing amongst the heads of the remaining tribes camped just outside of Winterfell. But always, her pronouncements were followed without question. Her sister’s authority over Winterfell had taken root and was starting to grow stronger with each passing day. It was especially obvious when Sansa dealt with Northern Lords who would grumpily question why their King was still in Dragonstone, when he ought to be here, where he belonged, where he was needed. Sansa was firm but gracious and most of all, she was consistent in defending Jon --- almost too staunchly, Arya thought. Still, it kept the Northern Lords and Ladies satisfied, at least for that day.

The South had toughened her sister up; she was no longer a delicate, useless, softly fragrant rose. Sansa had become sharp edges, like shards of ice: dangerous and cold and yet, somehow, she had retained her favored childhood task of needlework.

 _Sewing!_ Was that what she did all night inside the Lord’s Chambers? Was that how she tried to hide from Littlefinger who shadowed her with disturbing persistence? Arya could not help but imagine Sansa’s bent form in front of the hearth, fingers deftly moving against wool, never getting frustrated when trying to stitch through leather (however did she managed that?!) and in that very moment, Arya loved her so fiercely she felt slightly gutted, it was as if Sansa had used her needles to open Arya up and reached in to close her fist around her heart.

It hurt, to love her like this, to miss her even though she was standing right in front of her. Most of all, it hurt not to trust her.

 _Don’t get too hopeful. Don’t let your guard down._ Arya sternly, silently reminded herself. She should not feel this much for a bunch of unfinished cloaks. It was foolish. And anyway, Sansa had probably made her winter gowns with ridiculously high velvet collars that would do nothing for her neck; tight fitting dresses that would not cascade elegantly down her body and worst, embroidered with direwolves gaily, _stupidly_ prancing around the hem. Arya almost shuddered, remembering Sansa’s favored patterns of flowers and ivy and the dizzying whorls of silver thread. Her silence must have sent the wrong message. She heard Sansa let out an angry huff of air.

“Well, do you want them or not?” Sansa asked, sounding exactly like her younger haughty self.  

Exasperated, Arya snatched the offered coats, snorting loudly as she checked its cut, its perfect flawless stitches. Her throat constricted painfully, muscles closing up, tightening. She fought the urge to bury her face in it, just as she had done with Bran’s old tunics. Amongst the mix of soft wool, pelt, fur and leather Arya was certain that it would feel like crying into her mother’s arm. It took her a moment to compose herself before tersely asking, “No dresses and gowns or any of that useless girly shit?”

Arya couldn’t see it, but she could feel Sansa rolling her eyes.

“No gowns and dresses but something that overlaps, it looks like a skirt but it isn’t really.”

Arya arched her eyebrows. “But **_NOT_** a skirt.”

Sansa grumbled something inaudible before answering her through tightly clenched teeth, “Yes. No skirts. I _swear_.”

“Fine.” Arya turned on her heels, her face warmed and stretched into a smile, cheeks quivering with crushing _delight_ , the muscles that she had not used before, suddenly becoming alive again. She hugged Sansa’s offered garments and stepped inside her room, turning her head and looking back at her sister, who remained standing outside her door, unsure, hopeful, weather-beaten blue eyes looking at her as though they were the only two people left inside the castle, in the whole sorry bloody fucking kingdom.

“Are you planning on measuring me in the hallway then?” Arya asked, irritable, thankful, in between bursting into tears and laughing out loud. Despite her own stern warning, she could not help but be touched by Sansa’s gesture, at how exquisitely wonderful it felt to have someone who remembered that she didn’t have enough winter clothes.

Maybe she ought to give Sansa a chance.

* * *

She had stalked Littlefinger with a concentrated effort that took up most of her time and employed all of her skills. She rather enjoyed it but her enjoyment was always short lived. It maddened her, how often he lingered near the Lord’s Chamber. He was never allowed to enter; Sansa kept her door barred and would always have Brienne and that pitiful stumble-tongue squire with her. There was no real danger of Littlefinger cornering her sister, anyhow. Ghost would always be within sight wherever Sansa was. Ghost’s unexplained presence was enough to stop Baelish from attempting to do anything stupid.

It did not take long for Arya to decide that she had had enough of Littlefinger’s presence in Winterfell. She’d witness all of his slinking and slithering inside the castle, digging up old letters, hiding them (or at least pretending to hide them, the stupid idiot, who hides letter underneath mattresses? Someone like him would never commit that mistake. Did he think she was some sort simpleton?) He kept the Vale under his command with subtle threats about harm coming to some lordling in The Eyrie; he sent out and received letters from the South that Sansa was not aware of. Arya had seen and heard it all, sometimes as some nameless servant girl, sometimes as a shadow amongst dark halls.

Instinct told her to seek advice from Bran. They had barely conversed and not from lack of trying on her part. Her patience had grown thin with every emotionless reply she could get from him. But Arya did not want to make any decision on her own. This wasn’t Braavos. She wasn’t alone, she reminded herself. She was home, with her family. That was enough of a reason to go to her brother and ask him what he thought of Littlefinger.

Bran had stared at her, blinked for a couple of times before answering in a mildly unconcerned voice, “Lord Baelish is the bringer of chaos. His plots are numerous and endless, like threads spun together to create this world.” He then handed her a dagger, intricate and fine-looking, something that would have belonged to an important, powerful, wealthy Lord, and said no more.

A counsel in a form of a conundrum. Arya didn’t have the time to try and unravel Bran’s message. She held the dagger in her hand, marveling at the dragon bone hilt, testing the weapon’s weight and balance. It was a thing of beauty, but only because it was truthfully lethal in its sharpness. Valyrian steel.  

The dagger was the answer to Bran’s riddle. It was time to talk to Sansa about Lord Baelish.

* * *

The night Arya barged in on Sansa’s chamber she wore the skillfully made jerkin her sister had given her. A lone direwolf, the color of Nymeria baring its teeth was embroidered over her chest; the soft leather was comfortable and smelled faintly like Robb (must be something of his). This was her favorite and wore it as often as she could. She hoped Sansa would take it as a sign of peace.

She stormed in without knocking; ignoring all of the usual courtesies the Lady of Winterfell was duly accorded with and found herself staring at Sansa’s startled form, frowning at how quickly her sister had pulled the thick winter furs around her body.

Arya’s eyes widened as she realized what she had seen: scars. Too many for her eyes to fully comprehend, she’d only managed to glimpse at the small delicate lines carved on Sansa’s shoulder, fine lines from a small pointed knife. There were also angry teeth marks, faded ghastly, puckered pink on Sansa’s arms. There were small patches of burned skin just below her collarbone.  

“What are---” Arya began, suddenly feeling dangerously wrathful, hands clenched into tight fights. She had not been prepared at the sight of her sister’s skin – once as lovely and white and pure as snow – filled with an array of cuts and wounds. From whom? From when? _Why_? How could Sansa – _Sansa_ who cried terrified beyond belief when Jon had scared them a hundred years ago at the crypts – how could she have endured something so terrible?

“What are you doing here?!” Sansa screamed, standing up, shaking with fury. “Get out! Get out, _now_!”

In that very moment, there were both like the worst winter storm and avalanche that Old Nan used to tell. Winds strong as a thousand giant’s hand sweeping and uprooting trees, throwing it around with abandoned gleeful force. The sound of booming thunder as snow tumbled down mountains, crushing and swallowing up whole villages, twin ferocious forces that brought Winter Kings to their knees.

“How dare you order me around?” Arya shouted back, eyesight briefly wavering; she blinked back the angry tears pricking at her eyelids. “Just because you think you’re the Lady of Winterfell, doesn’t give you any right---” Arya had wanted to beg Sansa to let her see, let her know of her pains, but she did not have the words for that, so instead, she channeled her anger and frustration, remembering why she had gone to her sister’s chamber in the first place.

Sansa’s face was dark and wild and Arya realized she’d never truly seen Sansa angry. Her sister was a towering rage, a blizzard about to be unleashed, red-fire hair in wild disarray, spilling every which way. “I **_am_** the Lady of Winterfell. I _can_ order you around!” Sansa seethed.

Arya clenched her teeth, shook her head. “Lady of Winterfell? _You_?! You’re the one who couldn’t wait to leave home! You’re the one who wanted to marry that slimy _Lannister_ bastard. You’re the one who dreamed of having blonde, green eyed babies and –” _And look what happened to you! What did those monsters do to you?!_

Sansa had taken a step forward, raising a shaking hand, a movement that faltered when she couldn’t decide whether to slap Arya or violently push her aside. She let her closed fist fall beside her, like dead weight. “Shut up. Shut up. Or I swear to gods, Arya, if you don’t stop---” 

“You’ll what? Call your guards? Order me to the dungeons?! Go on, do it then!”

Sansa’s eyes narrowed, face scrunched up in disbelief. “I would never – you’re my sister. What is wrong with you?”

Arya pushed on. “What is wrong with me?! You’re the one whispering in dark corners with that filth, Littlefinger! Plotting and conniving and gods know what else.”

The color had suddenly drained off Sansa’s face, her Tully blue eyes, their mother’s eyes, Robb’s eyes, bright blue with unshed tears and bitter resentment. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Arya jutted her chin out, “Then let’s get rid of him.”

Sansa stumbled back, as though Arya had physically hit her. “Wha—what?”

“Littlefinger. I know how to get rid of him.”

Sansa took deep, gulping breathes and although she visibly trembled, she held her head high and spoke calmly. “Don’t. Arya, you don’t know what you’re saying. Littlefinger has done nothing but help us. I will not hear any more of this, especially from you.” Quick as a fox, Sansa grabbed Arya by the arms with a force Arya had not thought her sister was capable of. Surprised at the sudden physicality in Sansa’s movement, Arya let herself be dragged to the very end of the room.

Cornered now, she defiantly looked up to her sister’s face. Sansa held her shoulders and knelt down so that she could lean forward and fervently whisper into her ears: “You need to be careful, Arya. You just can’t say things like that, it’s--”

Arya pushed her away. “Do you want to get rid of him?”

Sansa opened her mouth, closed it, and shook her head. “We need The Vale.” She answered faintly.

Arya shrugged off Sansa’s grip from her shoulders. “No one in the Vale even likes him. They all hate him. They will come to your side, if and _when_ you ask them to. They think… they’re all _hoping_ that maybe you can save Aunt Lysa’s pathetic son. They’ve never truly trusted Littlefinger.”

Sansa looked both startled and nervous, a deep frown creasing her forehead. “How do you know about this? Who have you been talking to? Don’t you understand how dangerous--”

“I am not afraid.” Sansa wouldn’t understand if she told her that it wasn’t Arya Stark that had been asking around, talking to Vale Knights who often became loose tongued after a few cups with a curios friendly northerner. Knights would usually know a lot about their Lord’s opinions and some, not all, would only take a while before they would start spilling secrets. One would usually be even more vocal if first asked about their homes, the families they’ve left behind. She’d effectively used it before with the Lannister army she’d shared drinks with. Once they start talking, they very rarely stop. 

“Arya—” Sansa began, worry shining in her face.

“You said Bran knows things.”

Sansa frowned. “Bran? What does Bran have to do with this? Arya, you need to stop whatever it is that you’re trying to do, it’s not safe.” Her sister’s blue eyes were filled with a growing desperate alarm.

“I already told you, I’m not afraid.” Sansa was watching her face, her vivid blue eyes roving over her. There was a panicked, pleading quality in her sister’s voice as she asked her what she was planning to do. But Arya shook her head. “The less you know, the less _he’ll_ know.”

Sansa stood up and started pacing the room. Her sister seemed more concerned about what will happen to her and Arya almost bragged that she could easily deal with Petyr without a weapon. If she had wanted to, she could have killed him already. Of course, she couldn’t do just that. No matter how insidious Littlefinger was, he still held power and influence. They couldn’t just murder him outright. For one, The Vale would not just turn a blind eye and ignore his death. It has to be something that even the Vale Lords will find _agreeable_.

“You don’t know Littlefinger. What he’s capable of doing.” Sansa had finally stopped her pacing. She didn’t look as terrified, but she was still eyeing her nervously. Arya could practically see Sansa trying to piece things together. Perhaps it would be easier if she told Sansa about her many faces. But _how_? How could she tell her sister that she could cut off someone’s face, rid it of blood and muscles, bones and tissues, until it was nothing but a skin that she could wear?

Sansa would be horrified. She would be sickened by the mere thought. Arya wasn’t sure how she would feel if Sansa thought of her as a ruthless monster. But, she wasn’t, really. She was just a conduit of justice and vengeance. There was a reason she had found herself on a boat going to Braavos instead of the Wall. Valar Morghulis. Arya reminded herself.

Sansa was right. She didn’t know what Littlefinger was capable of. She could guess, she could think up of the most horrible, painful, perfidious things. Who knows what Petyr Baelish was truly capable of doing? All the more reason for her to kill him now before he does something that could not be undone.

“I know what he wants.”  

“You think I don’t?”  Sansa had grown suddenly calm, back to being an Ice Queen. Her fury was the coldness of winter, pure as ice.

Arya could read the disgust and hatred shimmering in Sansa’s eyes. Yes, Littlefinger wants Sansa, but more than that, he wants to watch wolves tear each other part before he could claim Sansa as his prize. But he doesn’t know the true nature of wolves. He’s nothing but a tiresome vermin that she could so easily crush. But she can’t do it alone.

“Arya, please, please be careful.”

Sansa did not say the words out loud. She did not have too. From that moment on, Arya understood Sansa more than ever. She knew what she had to do. It was the only way.

* * *

This wasn’t the Wall, but Arya imagined this must how it felt like, standing at the edge of the world, staring into nothing but endless white-covered land. Snow everywhere, snow in everything. She watched silently as night fell and she came back every morning, just in time to watch the dawn rise. She hasn’t stopped since. Always, she would squint her eyes, wondering if this time, she would spot Jon, riding a dark horse, coming towards the castle. Or maybe Nymeria, her long legs, stretched out as she took great leaps, her huge paws barely making any impression on the soft, white snow.

Night fell. Dawn rose. No Jon. No Nymeria. But, w _inter is here._

That was what she was watching. _Winter._

Winter was father and mother and the brothers she had lost. Winter was her direwolf who roamed, not in the North of her home, but in the heart of the Riverlands. They were here, even when they were all gone, turned into nothing but memories that were slowly, daily fading away, slipping through her fingers no matter how tightly she closed her fists.

They had gotten rid of Littlefinger with little trouble. She hated having to threaten Sansa; she hated having to see fear in her sister’s eyes, her face turning white with horror, her body trembling with suspicion. Arya hated herself for forcing Sansa to wear her own mask of cold suspicion, as though they weren’t sisters. Like they were enemies watching, waiting for someone to make the first move, the first cut, the first arc of a dagger, the glint of steel that will draw the first blood. It wasn’t truly a betrayal, but it hurt her all the same. It would be the last time she would ever use Sansa that way, but Arya had needed her to be as convincing, otherwise Baelish would have gotten suspicious.

The pure shock and terror in his eyes had been reward enough, the fact that it had rendered him a stuttering fool, suddenly unable to smoothen out the charges thrown at him with his usual cool and convincing demeanor --- it hadn’t been a stroke of luck. Arya had expected him to be so thrown off balance and without a ready to lie to counter the list of his crimes recited in front of Northern Lords and Vale Knights. Arya made sure she was able to cut his throat before he could recover and worm his way out of justice using his trusted weapon: words coated with honeyed falsehoods. In the end, Littlefinger was no different from old Walder Frey. Baelish thought he was smarter than all of them, but he made one fatal error, he underestimated the pack. That was his downfall.

They had barely breathed a sigh of relief at Littlefinger’s death when already a new threat loomed over them: wights and dragons and their Mother of Fire, and Jon, caught in between.

Arya didn’t know if this Targaryen Princess would ever harm her last remaining kin, the son of her brother, all in the name of a throne that only mad men had truly ever wanted. She didn’t know if they could all survive the coming wars. But she was certain about one thing: for thousands of years, even in the harshest winters, even after the Long Night, even with dragons flying over the North, demanding that they bend their knees, the Starks have endured. The Starks were part of the North; the Starks were the cold hardened ice that coated The Wall, the snow that covered the land, the icy wind that was now sweeping across the kingdom.

The Starks will endure. And the pack will survive. She will make sure of it.


	5. acting near normal

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Starks are home. The Starks have returned. The Starks are once again in the seat of power. The North finally freed from the greedy power plays of the South, their petty, never ending wars. The Stark name is no longer whispered like a secret prayer, it is now exalted, revered more than ever. Against all odds, Ned Stark’s remaining children have come back to Winterfell, battered but victorious. It is the stuff of legends, the kind the North would sing about in years to come. The songs will tell of the return of the wolves, to right all that had been wrong, to give the Northerners food and warmth and protection and most of all, justice. Justice for everything that they have lost.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay. So this is going slower than I had anticipated, the plot is somewhat moving along... I think or at least I hope so. Anyway, please feel free to let me know what you think and feel and many thanks in advance for still being here with me, reading this fic. Next chapter will have a couple of new POVs.

So four months ago, I had this crazy Idea of how I wanted Season 8 to go down and posted it on tumblr, which you can read [here](http://graceverse.tumblr.com/post/166102327143/what-if)

* * *

 

**Sansa**

The Starks are home. The Starks have returned. The Starks are once again in the seat of power. The North finally freed from the greedy power plays of the South, their petty, never ending wars. The Stark name is no longer whispered like a secret prayer, it is now exalted, revered more than ever. Against all odds, Ned Stark’s remaining children have come back to Winterfell, battered but victorious. It is the stuff of legends, the kind the North would sing about in years to come. The songs will tell of the return of the wolves, to right all that had been wrong, to give the Northerners food and warmth and protection and most of all, justice. Justice for everything that they have lost.

The King in the North, The Lady of Winterfell, Prince Bran and Princess Arya (though Arya absolutely hated the title) have brought back peace in the Land. And together, they will rebuild all that had been destroyed.

No one must ever know that the Lady of Winterfell spends most nights awake: lonely and afraid, her lips chewed down until it is bloodied and smarting with pain.

Sansa Stark is always careful to present herself a strong, capable Regent of the King. She must be unchallenged and resilient, but as a Lady, she must also be amenable and willing to listen to the men around her, whose pride she must always be careful with. The Heads of the Northern Houses are all so young, not nearly as proud as their fathers would have been; which does not mean that she can easily govern them, they still have surviving uncles and advisors who sits beside them and whispering into their ears. Being almost their age and a woman to boot is of no advantage to her, Sansa is all too painfully aware of this.

She knows the power she wields but she must never undermine and exclude these young Lords and Ladies. And even those from the Vale who had guaranteed their support for the North, must be treated with caution. She must be soft and affable, like all the grand ladies of the court had been trained to be and yet, she must always demand and expect their loyalty.  

It is a dangerous balancing act, one that she has to do every second, every minute, every hour of the day. To slip up, to let someone challenge her or Arya or Bran – a moment of weakness, that is all that it will take.  Sansa knows this all too well. She is no longer the trustful child she once was. She had spent most of her life a prisoner: in Kings Landing, in the Vale, even in her own home. The people of the castle who she had grown up with, who had sworn their allegiance to her Lord Father, to her brother King Robb, have once turned their backs on her. The fear of facing Bolton’s punishment of torture and death was greater than their fidelity.

Sansa understood their fear; she could even relate to their cowardice. She knew what it was like to be scared, to turn her back, close her eyes and keep her mouth shut. She is adept at making herself invisible when needed. She could hide herself away inside an empty shell that knew nothing but silence and obedience, always with a readied, _“Yes, My Lord. As you wish, Your Grace,”_ a graceful bow, head bent, her face showing nothing but neutrality, at best.

What she could not forget, nor completely forgive, was how some of them had not rallied to their side when they had been called upon by the daughter of their Liege Lord. Yes, all they had to offer for protection was an army of wildlings, but she had expected more from these proud men and women. She had thought that if she had been ready to crawl out of her hiding and fight back, so would they. It was their duty and they had failed. Jon had decided the punishment and rewards and now, Sansa could only tread carefully. The knowledge of their treachery was a painful reminder that she could only fully trust but a handful of people.

Jon bending his knee, pledging his allegiance to the Dragon Queen puts her – all of the remaining Starks – in a precarious position, for what good was a King if he would so easily surrender their freedom? A freedom that they have barely even tasted? What good were the Starks if they would have to bow down and willingly sacrifice surviving northerners for another war for the Iron Throne?

The North would rally against the Night King and the White Walkers, Sansa is certain of this. They would die defending their lands and families, but for a foreign Queen who brings back not just dragons but an army of Dothrakis and Unsullied, Sansa is not sure if she can convince them to sacrifice their lives for a throne they care not about.

It is all she thinks of and she is terrified that she would not be able to have the right words to convince the North, to protect Jon and her family. Worst was the recent discovery of Jon’s true parentage. It has made everything so much more complicated, the fragile balance of power has been shattered once more. She had thought herself free from the game of thrones. But it seems that no one ever truly escapes it. It was just a matter of choice of playing and taking risks - risks that can mean the death and utter destruction. But to just idly stand by, waiting to be swept away with those who yield power and influence, to leave everything to chance, to luck, completely without control of one’s own life to be always afraid and uncertain - it sounded far worst than death.

What choice does she have? 

Sansa would have to play the game again.

And so she must be vigilant. She must learn as much as she could, take everything into account. She has to be smart and brave. But could she do it?

There were some days when Sansa was certain that whatever new danger this Targaryen Queen would bring them (she _could_ be an ally and all her worrying would be for naught) they would all be able to survive. Wounded, yes, but still safe together within the walls of Winterfell. But there were also terrible sleepless nights of being afraid, feeling all alone and unsure of herself. Everyone was counting on her; the North was her responsibility, while Jon was away. And being the oldest surviving child of Lord Eddard and Lady Catelyn, she was the head of their family now. Every decision she would make may take them one step closer to chaos and ruin.

Sansa was forever reminded that once, long ago, she had acted a part in their father’s death. Even if she had been but a child, her actions, however well-meaning she thought they were, had deadly consequences and to suddenly realize that it was happening again, with so much more at stake, Sansa could not help but feel so horribly alone, with no one to turn to and ask for help.

Not for the first time since Jon had sailed for Dragonstone, Sansa wished he had never left. Jon would have known what to do. He would have told her how to deal with everything that was happening and she would only be too happy to support him in whatever he decides – as long as it was for the greater good of the North and their family. And even if they didn't always agree with how to handle certain situations, Jon’s mere presence had been enough of a reassurance that she would not have to do everything all on her own, that he would be by her side, _always_.

Sansa wished that she had said more, done more to convince Jon to stay. If she had… if only she had… in the darkness of her room, Sansa lets her thoughts and feelings wander in places that left her equal parts hopeful and wretched until finally, sleep would take her. The wishes of her heart, unvoiced, forced down, to be ignored and forgotten, dissolves as the first gray lights of the early morning pierces her room and only one thought remains, simple and crystal clear: a solution to their problem.

She must give Jon his Stark name.

How, was something she would have to thoroughly think about.

* * *

 

Sansa would spend most of her mornings inside her solar, listening to anyone who wanted to speak to the Lady of Winterfell. Prince Bran on her left, Princess Arya on her right; it presented a strong united front that she insisted was imperative. She had been ready to assert her authority over Bran and Arya should they refuse, but they didn’t. They had both nodded their heads, having clearly grasped the intricacies of politics and although unspoken, they understood the perilous position they hold.

Sansa is more than thankful for her siblings; their show of solidarity had given her the added strength she needed as they sat beside her, silently observing, occasionally leaning over her to whisper a word of caution or an advice. If there ever was a disagreement between them, Bran would intervene, but only occasionally. There was no rhyme or reasons when he’d decide to give them instructions (do not talk to the Lords and Ladies yet about Jon bending the knee, wait for his return. Until Lord Reed arrives, there will be no more talk of Jon’s parentage. Keep Jaime in the dungeons. Don’t let Arya inside the Library, she’s an unwelcome nuisance.) And since she and Arya did not have Bran’s foresight, they never argued with what he has to say (including Arya’s banishment from the Library; Arya had merely rolled her eyes). In a strange roundabout way, Bran was fulfilling his role as the true heir of Winterfell.

Sansa would still sporadically try to convince Bran to take on the role of Lord of Winterfell, it would be easier for Lords to listen to a male heir, even if he was young and inexperienced. But Bran was not interested. Instead he gave her riddles to solve. Nothing he said would make sense. At least not enough for Sansa to understand what he was actually telling her. He’d give her pitiful, sorrowful looks, reminding her that he would need to go back beyond the Wall soon.

“No, please, don’t go. Stay here with us. Let’s rebuild Winterfell together. You and me and Arya and Jon.” As always, when Bran talked about leaving, about becoming The Three Eyed Raven, Sansa would take his hand, pressing it between her palms, enough to hurt him, though he never seemed to feel anything.  “Why do you have to leave? You’re home now!”

“I can’t help you rebuild Winterfell, Sansa. I’m sorry.” But Bran never sounded sorry. He’d say the right words but nothing in his face showed regret or sadness. It always left Sansa feeling emptied out.

“Don’t leave, Bran. Don’t leave us again.” Sansa would plead, feeling the tears prickling her eyelids.

Bran barely even shrugged. He'd gave her a long look with eyes that conveyed nothing: a blue-blank steady gaze. And always, he would tell her, “We will all have to leave Winterfell.”

Sansa shivered violently at the thought and shook her head. “I _won’t_. I won’t ever, ever leave. Never.” There was nothing in this world that will change her mind. She would rather face the Army of the Dead than head back South.

“You’ll understand later, Sansa.” Bran would say, before raising his hand, a signal for Sam that they were done and Sansa would wordlessly watch as Sam wheeled Bran out of her solar. Bran seemed so infinitely older. She could feel the years on him. All these things that he could see or sense or dream of, piled high upon him. Her sweet little brother buried underneath this old magic she had no knowledge of.

As a child, she had always hated Old Nan’s tale. And while Arya and the rest of her brothers would beg for the terrifying tales from Beyond the Wall, riveted by the endless horrors that lurked past the impenetrable wall of ice, Sansa would always escape to her room, willing herself to calm down, fervently knitting or sewing, trying to fight off all her childish imaginings of giants and wargs hiding in every dark shadow. Bran and Rickon would sometimes barge in on her room, having been effectively scared off by Old Nan.

Sansa wanted desperately for Bran to reach out and take her hand, like he used to do. She wished Bran had not grown up at all. That he had stayed a little boy holding on to his older sister for comfort. She wanted to take care of him the way she knew how, like when they had all been young and silly and she had played the role of Mother. Bran and Rickon would clutch her skirt, their sweet baby faces looking up at her, begging for her smile, for the warmth of her hugs and she had always delighted in showering them with affections. Kisses and embraces that they both welcomed, giggling and squirming inside her arms. 

But Bran never even looked at her like that anymore, like a brother who had had missed and longer for his sister. Sansa wished that Bran would one day look at her like he needed her the way he had years and years ago. 

Sansa mourned the thought that he never will. 

* * *

 

Everyone was aware that the power in Winterfell resided within the three of them. It wasn’t just her now, it wasn’t just Sansa Lannister or Sansa Bolton as she would still sometimes hear or, think she had heard – she was almost always bone tired and weary – and sometimes it gets confusing whether the whispered conversations that haunted her were spoken from someone hidden behind the wall, or if it was just the same voices inside her head, forever admonishing her. The voices never really go away.

At the end of the day, even though she had not asked them to, Bran and Arya would gravitate back to her solar and there they spent many quiet nights sitting apart, lost in their own worlds. It hardly mended their frayed relationships but the simple act of turning her head and finding Bran nearby, sitting by the hearth, silently gazing at the fire or watching Arya at the corner of her eyes, noting the way her sister methodically cleaned Needle with unmatched concentration, it soothed Sansa like nothing else.

They were all together, back in Winterfell.

It was everything that she had ever dreamed and wished and prayed for. 

Well, almost everything.

Jon still wasn’t home. She missed him. She missed him with a quiet but surprising force that had startled her, the first time she realized that she was looking for him in every corner, in every room, in every moment that she felt lost and lonely.

Jon had been a solid, reassuring presence that she had unknowingly taken for granted and now, not having him by her side, it had shaken her. Her whole world seemed to have shifted once more, wobbly and uncertain, anchorless. Lost.

Petyr had once bragged to her how he had learned to navigate the seas as they traveled by ship to the Vale. He had said something about how a compass worked and all Sansa had remembered from Petyr’s smug prattling was that it would always point North.

 _North. Home_.

Somehow, without her even realizing it, Jon had become _her_ North.

When she had found out that Jon, her bastard half brother was still alive, it had made her _want_ to escape. The thought that Jon had survived had brought a spark inside of her. She knew immediately that she would be safe with Jon. He was her last remaining family, the last person in the world who still remembered how Wintefell had been, how happy they all had been. Going to the Wall where Jon was had been her last remaining option. It was the only place she was determine to go and Sansa had been ready to brave the darkest, coldest forest to get to Jon. _Jon!_ Who was now Lord Commander of the Night's Watch. Jon who she remembered as quiet and gruff and sulky, but never ever  _unkind._  

 _Go to The Wall_. _Go to Jon_. Go _N_ _orth. Go North._

Those were the words she had repeated to herself as she ran away from Winterfell, as she wadded in freezing lakes with Theon, and later, as she rode next to Brienne. And as soon as she had stepped inside the gates of Castle Black, turning helplessly around, the faces of hard men in dark robes staring at her, it was Jon who she was looking for: a needle’s compass, moving around and around, searching for its North, finally finding it standing by the stairs, gazing at her with an expression that was too filled with shock and confusion, but was still startlingly _Jon_. His face older now, but oh so, so wonderfully familiar, like home.

During the Battle of the Bastards, arriving with the Knights of the Vale, her eyes had found and followed Jon back to castle. And even when they could not agree on how to manage the Northern Lords, she had still looked to Jon, always trusting that his decision, reckless it may be, will never put her in harm’s way.

Jon had not eclipsed Robb in Sansa’s eyes. Robb would always be her girlhood hero, her most favorite, beloved brother, but Robb was dead and Sansa had stopped believing anyone could ever truly protect her. But Jon _has,_ at least so far, he has. It seemed disloyal to have so little faith in him _._

Sansa missed having Jon by her side as they tried to make sense of the chaos in the North, she even missed the way they argued. Mostly, she missed the way he would look at her: so kind and tender. It made her heart ache. It has been so long since someone has taken care of her without any dark motive or political machinations to be wary of. In her hearts of hearts, she knew that Jon would never betray her trust nor deliberately hurt her.  

_Jon is Jon._

 

* * *

 

On the morning after Jon had left, Sansa had woken up terrified, shaking with fear that someone – Littlefinger, most probably - had found a way to get rid of her. A mere girl, without the protection of her father or her brothers, not even an uncle, alone in a castle of men greedy for power, filled with ambitions and dreams of taking whatever was left of Winterfell.

Would anyone dare now that their King had sailed off to Dragonstone, against almost everyone’s advice? Would someone be waiting at her door, waiting for her to emerge from the safety of her room so that she could be dragged into another form of prison?

Sansa had to close her eyes and remind herself of how she had survived King’s Landing and Cersei and Joffrey. She had survived The Vale and Aunt Lysa's madness. And Ramsay, too. It was her who had chosen Ramsay's death. It was her who had made sure that everything of his disappeared like the last summer warmth that was now fleeing from the land. She did not suffer through all that to fail in her own home, not when she was now Lady of Winterfell, not when Jon was counting on her. 

And as Lady of Winterfell, she reminded herself, her duties must always come first. Just as what her mother had told her. Just as she had been trained to do.

Without Jon by her side, she would have to relearn how to be alone and strong, to become ice and steel. She was a Stark. A wolf. She can be as hard and unyielding as the frozen lakes and rivers surrounding her beloved land. She will draw strength from the memory of her parents and the hope that Jon would be coming back to Winterfell in no time.

And so Sansa had emerged from her room, tall and only just slightly trembling, jaws tightly clenched, dressed in grey robes: Daughter of the North. Winter’s Queen.

She owed it to her father and her mother, to Robb and Rickon. To Arya and Bran. To her direwolf, Lady. And to Jon who had trusted her, who had believed that she could do this: lead their people. She owed it to everyone who had sacrificed their lives to win back the North. She will not fail. She will listen and lead, she will be smart, and brave and strong. She will be what her people needed her to be. She has to. There was no other choice.

But almost every day, every night before she closed her eyes and finally succumbed to sleep, she fervently wished that Jon could come home soon.

* * *

 

After Petyr’s death, Arya had come to her, offering her the dagger that she had used to kill Littlefinger. Her sister had cleaned the weapon, all the blood wiped off, but the silver gleam – quick, like a menacing wink – turned Sansa’s blood into pure ice. She did not want it. She had no use for it. But Arya insisted. She already had Needle. What did Sansa have to protect herself with? Her coy smiles and useless charm?

“I’m tired of this. Aren’t you?” Sansa could not understand why there was still this palpable tension between her and Arya.  She thought whatever mistrust they felt between them had been expunged after they had conspired and successfully brought their own brand of justice on Littlefinger. How long was she supposed to suffer for her mistakes at Kings Landing? Unbidden, her thoughts went straight to Jon, and she couldn’t help but bitterly wonder if Arya would be kinder to her, if Jon were only here.

“I can’t always be here to protect you. Your Lady Knight, too. So just accept this. It’s yours.” There was something in Arya’s voice that was both gentle and unyielding.

Arya wasn’t offering her the kind of sisterhood Sansa had always wanted – cuddled together in bed, whispering secrets, combing each other’s hair, picking out gowns for each other. She thought she had outgrown that dream, that fanciful wish, but no, it was still there and she painfully thought of Margery and how she had briefly taken Sansa under her wings – but Margaery was dead too and this was Arya, her real sister, her own flesh and blood and perhaps, this was better.

They needed to protect each other. This was no time for romantic, whimsical ideals and dreams of laces and ribbons. Swallowing the bile rising inside her throat, Sansa reached out and watched with silent dread as Arya deftly flipped the dagger over, gently laying its harmless hilt atop Sansa’s opened hand. Probably the only gesture of peace Arya was capable of showing. Sansa accepted, closing her fist around the smooth hilt.

It was not as heavy as she thought it would be. Later, she might take a closer look at it. It might make her cry again – for what, she could not really tell. She didn’t particularly mourned Pety’s death. He had treated her like she was nothing but a title that he could claim, not even as someone he could love or cherish. She was the ghost of her mother, a past that Petyr thought he could rewrite. She was important only because of her ties to the North, but in the end, she was expendable. If Ramsay had ended up murdering her, it would not have stopped Petyr’s scheming; he would still go after the Iron Throne. Her death would just be a small unplanned hiccup on his plan. But it was so lonely – to have no one who cared for her, even if it was just as a pawn in the game of thrones. Her tears would still be for herself, for her lost dreams, for the man that her father had promised her that she would never have.

Arya kept her eyes on the dagger until Sansa carefully hid it at one of the compartments on her table. She seemed satisfied that Sansa had not treated it carelessly. Bouncing on the balls of her feet, arms clasped behind her, her younger sister regarded her coolly, "You do know how to use it, right?"

Sansa frowned, "I just..." she made stabbing gestures.

Her sister's face lit up, lips curling up in a mischievous smile. "Yes, right. With the pointy end." 

Sansa mumbled a quick “Thanks”

Arya nodded, looking slightly pleased with herself. “I’ll keep my eyes and ears open. Not to brag, but I’m near as silent as Ghost,” Arya titled her head and raised her eyebrows.

Sansa need not turn to know that Ghost had silently entered her solar. A mystery she had yet to solve. Perhaps Ghost sensed how much she missed Jon, felt the same way and was naturally drawn to her? Sansa was sure Ghost hunted most of the day, she didn’t see him often, but he was there whenever she felt lonely and scared. “Here, Ghost.” She called, testing if Ghost would answer to her. He didn’t. Not yet. But Sansa was patient. One day, if Ghost would allow it, she was going to brush his coat the way she had once done with Lady, until it was the softest thing that she had ever touched. Sansa wondered if Ghost will let her tie velvet ribbons on his furs.

Ghost shook his head, red eyes glowing with silent amusement, as though having read her mind. He yawned and then quietly lay down near the hearth, blinking sleepily before closing his eyes. The near silent huffing sound he made as he rested, comforted her.

“Littlefinger isn’t our only enemy.”Arya continued, breaking the silence. “But you already know that. You deal with those bothersome Lords. I’ll deal with the rest.”

Sansa swallowed hard, shivering at the image of a dark nameless shadow across the walls, listening in on whispered conversations, all the disgruntled complains about a missing King, rumors from the South about dragons, a field of flames, of men bending their knees to avoid agonizing death by fire. Yes, Littlefinger was not their only enemy and she needed someone to spy for her. It’s not like Arya was asking for her permission. Her sister would do whatever she wanted to; she was merely giving Sansa the courtesy of letting her know. It was dangerous and even though she had seen Arya’s skills – how she acquired those skills, Sansa will probably never know – she still feared for her sister’s safety.

“Be careful.” That was her mantra. Her words to live by. Be careful. Always.

Arya smirked at her, “Where’s the fun in that?”

* * *

 

Information is just as valuable and deadly as any weapon in any war.  It was how Littlefinger had kept himself ahead of the game. Sansa had observed him long enough to know how he had so easily manipulated everyone around him.  He had been proud and vain and in the end, had been careless enough with her, underestimating her as he bragged about his _talents._ That was what he liked to call it. _Talents._

It’s not strength, or muscle or skills in swords and arrows. No, he could never boast about those, but an aptitude for discerning which piece of information was important and how to use it to his advantage had been his weapon and he wielded it with deadly efficiency.

She was a slow learner. True. But she learned. And she learned well.

Arya kept her informed of news from all corners of the Seven Kingdom. Her sister roamed around Winterfell and talked to anyone and everyone. Ned Stark's youngest daughter had always been more comfortable amongst the common folks; she seemed to enjoy their easy going nature, their straightforward answers – none of the flowery words of the high born that annoyed her so much. She had away that made them open their homes and unguardedly share their stories. And so slowly, rumors turned into facts, the tales from the South trickling into Winterfell: A Field of Fire, the supply train turning into nothing but useless ashes.

Now everyone talked about _real_ dragons, reborn from thousands of years, breathing fire and plunging the land in flames, dark smoke and the scent of burning flesh. They talked about the Two Queens and their weapons of choice: Green Fire. Dragon Fire. The South was burning while the frozen hand of the North was slowly reaching out towards the rest of the kingdoms, ice spreading like wildfire, quick and unstoppable.

No matter how dark or discouraging the news Arya brought her, Sansa could not help but secretly enjoy these moments she shared with her sister. She watched Arya’s face, the way she moved, the way she lifted her hands, shrugged her shoulders, the expressions on her face. Whenever her sister reported all the endless complaints and demands of every lords and civilian, knights and free folks, Sansa would notice how Arya would scrunch up her nose, two worried lines appearing on her forehead. Sansa was fascinated to find shadows of their father in the way Arya thoughtfully tilted her head. Sometimes, she could even see Jon when Arya held her hand against her chin, grumpy and dour. Just last night, Sansa had felt her heart painfully clenching inside her chest when she gleamed her mother’s affectionate smile as she handed Arya a newly sewn tunic.

Arya seemed not aware of it at all, but she was turning out to be more beautiful than Sansa had expected. There was an elfin like quality in her and her huge dark Stark eyes were something Sansa might even find herself envying in the years to come. Arya would hate it and love it, exactly the same way Sansa had hated and loved her face and her hair, and her blue eyes and how it had brought her nothing but misery.

Sansa could not help but try to fill in all those years that they had spent apart. Arya had mentioned Braavos and all the other places she had been too, but that was all. She never told her what she did and the people she had met. Just the places she had stayed and eventually left. Some part of Sansa wished that she and Arya could share more, could tell each other the things that they had gone through. It could not have been all bad?

Sansa tried to think of a story she could tell Arya, a lighthearted anecdote of her life in Kings Landing or when she hid in the Vale as Littlefinger’s bastard, or when she had finally returned to Winterfell only to be wed to a monster. She could not remember anything happy ever happening to her. There were brief friendships that had warmed her: Shea and Margaery. But she doubted Arya wanted to hear about them.

Everything else had been awful. All those times she had felt scared and utterly hopeless, never in control of her own fate. There was never a moment where she had felt safe enough to close her eyes and sleep soundly at night. She was careful of everything that she said or did, she had learned to school her features so that she could keep everything inside, hidden from the eyes of the court, of Littlefinger, of Ramsay, everyone seemed intent on finding fault in her, a reason to punish her, to further hurt her. Sansa feared that it had been the same for Arya. That their time away from Winterfell was nothing but a string of horrible incidents that they both wished they could erase and forget. She never had to courage to tell her own tale, to voice out the nightmares she had lived through. It must be the same of her sister.

She could never truly know everything that had happened to Arya. Not knowing might be blessing. Not knowing, she reminded herself, was reason enough to never judge Arya for what she had become, for what she had to do to survive. Sansa shuddered at the memory of finding Arya’s ‘ _masks’,_ the empty eyes, the faces that once belonged to someone – and how could Arya have gotten them? Did she take off those faces herself?

Sansa could not imagine Arya quietly draining the blood, cutting skin and bones. She had looked into her sister’s eyes and found no monster, no darkness lurking in them. She would know a monster – she had lived with one – and Sansa was certain that her sister was not capable of such vileness and cruelty. 

But… but perhaps, not knowing was a simply a blessing that she ought to be thankful for.

* * *

 

Arya was complaining about the sorry state of Winterfell some nights ago, incensed at the lack of attention over something so vital. “How could we defend Winterfell when all the burned and collapsed parts of the South Gate are still not cleared? We’re practically defenseless if someone attacked us,” and was rendered speechless with surprise when Sansa agreed with her. 

The following morning, Sansa immediately arranged a meeting with the remaining master masons in Wintertown and they listened quietly as the masons explained why nothing could be done for the wide gaps between the walls, the stones that had been smashed at Hunter’s Gate. Repairs could only be made for damaged woods: doors that had been burned down, hacked or rotted away. Hauling lumber was already a challenge these days. The steel gates could be replaced, but there was a shortage of blacksmiths, everyone was busy making weapons for the dragonglass Jon had sent them. As for the stone walls and stairs, mortar would not set. It was too cold. They would have to wait for spring to start repairing the sections of the walls that had been damaged during fights or because of the Bolton’s neglect.

Sansa asked Maester Wolkan, who had taken down notes during the meeting, to discuss with the masons what else could be done before dismissing them all. She could not stand to hear more disheartening summary of the state of the castle. When they were left alone inside the room, Sansa had slumped down on her chair, feeling Arya’s own frustration. She sensed the anger simmering at the surface and before Arya could explode with her usual cursing, which had shocked her at first, but she had gotten used to it by now, an idea suddenly formed inside her head.

She studied Arya’s young face, the hard lines of their father’s chin, and the steely glint in her dark eyes and Sansa felt shamed at how she had failed to fully welcome her sister back home. How had she not realized that Arya was not just her sister, but a Stark who can, and _will_ help her as she rebuilt their home? Her trust in Arya was implicit and what better way to show it than handing off some of the responsibilities of running the castle unto her?

The stunned look on Arya’s face had almost been endearing when Sansa told her to take over the strengthening of the castle’s defenses. Sansa was relived to finally have someone who she could rely on to help her. She liked the thought of her and Arya managing Winterfell together. There were too many things that needed her attention, too many things happening all at once. No problem was ever solved, it seemed or if a solution was found, another difficulty would arise. It was endless, the things she needed to do. It was time she asked for someone for help and who better to help her than her own sister?

“And you can also help Brienne train the men and women who have volunteered to fight. Jon used to do that. I’m sure he’d agree that there isn’t anyone in the castle more skilled in fighting as you are.”

“Are you sure?” Arya asked, arching her eyebrows, her dark eyes reminding Sansa yet again, of their father’s somber stare.

She and Arya had only just begun to learn how to work and live together. As children, they had been so keen in keeping themselves apart because they didn’t share the same interests, the same personality. They had never tried to look past their differences; it all seemed useless back then. There was no way she and Arya would ever spend time together sewing and sharing gossip. Sansa would never have joined Arya with their brothers, trying to learn how to fight with swords and arrows.

They’d given up too early, too easily. But now that they were united by their fears and losses, by their innate Stark and Tully trait of protecting their family, Sansa felt a kindling of connection towards her sister that she had never felt before. She truly appreciated that Arya had listened to her, had trusted her as she tried to manage Winterfell all on her own. Arya never once questioned her authority.

“I’ve seen you and Brienne sparring.” Sansa answered shrugging. The more she thought of it, the more it made sense. She wondered why Arya wasn’t jumping up in excitement at the prospect of showing off her skills.

“I don’t think---” Arya began, sounding hesitant. A first.

Sansa rolled her eyes. “Just say ‘alright Sansa, I will.’ So I can say ‘thank you, Arya. That means a lot to me.’” Arya shook her head but Sansa insisted. “You know things that I don’t. You’ve got skills that I don’t have. I can’t run this castle all by myself. I can’t do it alone. Our people need you. Winterfell needs you. _I_ need you.”

There was a dumbfounded silence following her declaration and Sansa felt something changing between them: a small tiny shift in their relationship, a settling of nerves and tension that were still sometimes palpable between them. Arya gave her a long, hard look before nodding her head. “Alright Sansa, I will.”

“Thank you Arya, that means a lot to me.” Sansa smiled at her and Arya smiled back and there was nothing else to say. Sansa realized it then, with startling clarity, that she and Arya will never be truly close, not now, not yet, maybe not ever, but Arya would always understand, she would always know what it felt like to be alone and afraid, to despair for home, to wait, to hope, to finally step foot in Winterfell only to realize that it wasn’t home they were actually aching for, but a family: where one was wanted and loved and needed. And in that regard, in sharing that knowledge, they were truly sisters.

 

* * *

 

The days were becoming shorter and shorter, the sun barely making an appearance. Everyone in the castled walked huddled together. The Vale Knights, used to cold weather up in the mountains, had taken to wearing another layer of clothing just to keep themselves warm. The Northern Lords are kept busy organizing their food stock, the wools and pelts that could be salvaged from last year.

The remaining wildlings were mostly women and children and the few men who had been too injured to go with Tormund to man Eastwatch. Some of them have recovered enough to be useful, helping out their womenfolk, trying to re-organize the remaining tribes, and sometimes, they even help out the Northern folks who needed an extra hand with shoving snow off thatched roofs, or gathering whatever firewood they could in the nearby forest. Nothing near sharing meals and drinks and gathering around a fire, warming themselves and exchanging tales, but at least the free folks have stopped calling everyone in Winterfell as ‘Southerners’ and ‘Kneelers’.

Sansa could only guess why, but perhaps the Wildlings realized that they all lived the same way, they dressed in the same rabbit furs, thick wool over linen, leather hoods made from deer skin. They ate the same dried and salted meats, every little scrap of food tossed into the pottage that has been cooking for days on end. Their similarities have not made them friends, everyone was still wary of everyone but there was less tension within the castle, enough for Sansa to breathe a little easier.

Winter’s onslaught was a reminder that it did not matter whether you were a Lord or a Knight, a Stark or a wildling child – everyone felt the same coldness seeping into their skin, taking hold of their muscle and bones. There was no time and no use for fighting amongst themselves. As long as everyone felt safe enough in their own little corners, with their own groups, as long as the food was rationed equally, then peace reigned.

One of the many things that troubled Sansa had been the thought of having to sit as judge and mediator between her northern people and the wildlings. It was something she knew she would not be able to handle as well as Jon could and it reminded her yet again, of how long ago it had been since Jon had inelegantly raised his hand in a wordless farewell. In fact, if pressed, she would be able to recite the exact number of days since Jon had left. 

It was a distressing thought, how far away he was and how little she knew about the goings on in Dragonstone. Petyr had planted enough seeds of doubt to take root inside her mind, but she had constantly tried to gather them all up and throw it over her shoulder. Petyr was gone. Arya and Bran are alive and safe Winterfell. Jon would be home soon. He would _want_ to be home and be reunited with Bran and Arya as soon as possible. 

Sansa had not meant to tell him in a letter right away, there might be other people looking for Arya and Bran, but she knew the call of family – of Jon’s favorite sister, his beloved Bran – would be strong enough to make him want to come home. He need not abandon the mining of dragonglass, he could leave all that to Davos. Surely, he was already on his way back to Winterfell. To his family. She could not think of a reason why Jon would want to stay in Dragonstone.

Unless...

Unless, he wanted to stay there, with the Targaryen Queen. 

Sansa could fell her throat closing up as she tried to swallow a cup of watered down wine. This was something she had learned from Cersei. This simple act of trying to settle her nerves by drinking. It does not need to be wine or ale, it can be water, as long as she could concentrate on bringing the cup to her lips and slowly sipping whatever was inside it. It was the right kind of pause she needed to try and think things through, more calmly, more rationally. She needed to keep her emotions locked, encased in hard cold ice, something that she would not be forced to deal with. 

She took a deep breath. Cersei. Little Finger. Ramsay. They were all the same in the way they dealt with their enemies, with single minded ruthless focus. The moment they let themselves be distracted, it all fell apart. Sansa did not have the luxury of time to prod her feelings, to try and figure out what was happening inside her hearts of heart. She was afraid that if she did, if her resolved somehow weakened, everything will unravel and she will be left with nothing. Not even her own family.

She could not imagine anything worst than losing what she had fought so hard to have. Whatever she was feeling, it mattered little. Sansa had vowed long ago, that if she ever survived Kings Landing and found herself home, back in Winterfell, she would never be the same selfish girl. The desires of her young heart had taken her into dark paths that led only to pain and suffering and lost. 

Never again. 

* * *

 

Sansa let out a deep sigh as she sat by the weir tree, not praying, but gathering her secrets and hiding it deep inside her heart. Sometimes, whenever she felt bold enough, she would ask her father to give her strength and wisdom to face whatever it was that was coming. Sansa remembered when she was young, however badly she had behaved, father had always forgiven her. He never had harsh words for her and Sansa felt that father would understand her now. All those years away from home: a wolf turning into a hapless little bird, caged and passed around from Joffrey to Tyrion to Petyr to Ramsay. Father would know how miserably lonely it had been and surely, he would not mind so much if she thought too often about Jon, if she missed him with a constant, dull ache inside her chest, if she would sometimes dream of being wrapped inside his strong warm arms, if in the darkness of her room, she would recall the way his lips had gently brushed the top of her head.

Even her mother would not be so unkind as to look down upon her with scorn and disappointment. As a child, she had kept her distance from Jon not just because he had been a sulky boy – she had seen him whooping in delight as he played with Robb and Arya and the boys – but because she had sensed her mother’s dislike for her bastard half-brother and she had wanted so desperately to be as grand and wise as her mother. She had always thought that if her Lady Mother did not like Jon, then there must be a good reason why and as she had grown older, Sansa _did_ understand. Her father’s betrayal was something that would never stop haunting her mother and Jon would have been a constant reminder of her husband’s infidelity. No one could have faulted Lady Catelyn for not loving Jon as her own son.  

But things were different now and Sansa was sure that her Lady Mother would have appreciated everything that she and Jon had done. Catelyn would not begrudge her if she felt a new found fondness for her bastard brother. Of course it was not the same kind of affection she held for Robb or Bran and Rickon, but something that was still slowly growing – the soft unfurling of flowers in spring, all innocent and familial.

_Innocent and familial._

Another mantra for her. She would repeat this every night until it became her truth and she held on to it, wrapped it around herself, like the strongest armor, sturdy and sure. Impenetrable.

Until Bran’s revelation had struck a chink against her defenses. A small opening was all it took.  

It was the only reason why Sansa had felt the tightness in her chest slowly slackening until she could freely take deep breaths, her whole face – her whole body – suddenly warm and no, no, not warm. Hot. It felt as though the long gone summer sun had suddenly shined down upon her and she was filled with the intoxicating, loveliness of its welcome heat.

Father had not betrayed mother. Father had been trying to protect the son of his beloved sister, Lyanna Jon is a Targaryen prince, no longer a bastard, nor a brother, but a cousin.

_A cousin!_

And in that one moment of realization, everything had just become more dangerous.

 

* * *

 

Sansa stood by the window that overlooked the courtyard, watching silently as Arya walked towards the castle, on her way to see her. It had stopped snowing today, a short and welcomed respite and Sansa was sure Arya would not be happy about being summoned in the middle of day while she was busy with training the young boys _and_ girls who had bravely volunteered to fight for their King. She briefly wondered if it would help to have Jaime assisting in training. His skills after all, is still well known and it would send a strong message to have Queen Cersei’s twin brother, the commander of the once mighty Lannister Army, part of Winterfell’s defense, but no. Jaime should stay quietly hidden in the dungeons. Safer for him. There’s no telling how the North would react to a man, who in the War of Five Kings, had killed countless sons and fathers of the North.

 _War of Five Kings_. What a fancy name for something that had almost taken countless of lives. She wondered what this war would be called. Something poetic, no doubt. Something that could be sung in a somber, quiet voice. How she had loved listening to songs of war, singing in a low tremulous voice that would have moved a whole room of grown men. How things have changed! Sansa would rather sing about peaceful days and the blue skies of summer. But it seemed she was not destined for the idyllic romantic world she had dreamed of.

War on all sides, as Littlefinger had once told her. To ignore one would be fatal, but how could she ready her people to fight against the army of the dead heading their way when the threat of the Golden Company in the South, under Cersei’s command, also loomed before them? There were also the two dragons flying closer and closer towards Winterfell with each passing day.

And winter! This winter that was relentless and unforgiving. That had come at a time when all of the North, nearly bled to death from the ravages of war, was unprepared. With provisions already limited, she would have to figure out a way to share and distribute it, not just to the Northerners but the approaching army of this Dragon Queen.

 _His_ Dragon Queen.

It brought a bitter taste in Sansa’s mouth. She shouldn’t really feel betrayed, she told herself. Not when she hadn’t personally talked to Jon. It was difficult to gleam Jon’s intention in bending his knee with just the letter that he had sent her, but she could not deny how her heart had painfully twisted at the thought of Jon giving away their home, of becoming, yet again, a mere pawn in the game of thrones. Was Daenerys Targaryen so utterly volatile that there was no other way to ask help without subjugating the North once more under the rule of the Dragons? Could they not fight the Night King as equal? Monarchs of their two separate Kingdoms that was under attack by a force none of them would be able to fight without the other.

Littlefinger had mentioned an allegiance by marriage, too. Is that what Jon had in mind when he allowed Daenerys to strip him off his crown and of his power? Would it be easier then, more peaceful if they were to wed? They can all keep the knowledge about Jon being Rhaegar’s son a secret; Jon did not have to know. Wouldn’t he be happier being Ned’s son, being the brother of Robb and Bran and Arya and Rickon? Being a Queen’s consort would not be an awful life, especially if he loved his Queen. Why add to all of Jon’s grief by letting him know that the father he had loved all his life had lied to him? That he wasn’t even his true father? That the family he had loved with all of his heart was a lie, that he should not have had a direwolf, but a dragon instead.

He would lose the North as soon as he embraced his Targaryen blood: Winterfell, Bran, Arya…

She would lose him.

Sansa violently wrenched her thoughts away from Jon. How she was feeling was not of any consequence, she sternly reminded herself. This was bigger than the small glowing insistent _hope_ that had blossomed unconsciously inside her. A hope for what? She was not even certain, but she tried her best to ignore it. It was futile and had nothing to do with surviving the coming wars.

She held Jon’s letter already badly creased, the ink nearly faded. She had read it numerous times, until she had memorized every word. She clutched the parchment, staring at nothing, stupidly content to know what this was something Jon had held and that vague connection soothed her ever growing anxiety. She had tried her best to understand Jon’s words the way Jon would have wanted her to understand it but perhaps she was trying too hard to look for a different meaning in what Jon had written. Perhaps Jon was just truly letting her know that the North’s short and hard fought independence had ended and was once again handed over to the control of Dragons.

But a small part of her insisted that Jon would never so callously, so easily disregard what had been achieved and fought for with blood and dirt and tears, what Robb had died fighting for, what their people had longed for.   

They both knew that their communication would never truly be just between them. Letters were dangerous and they had both agreed to be real careful about the ravens they sent to each other. In truth, they both preferred that there was little to no communication between them at all, but it would be truly suspicious if they did not exchange letters. Her letters were brief empty reports of how everything in the North was being managed as well as she could. She had thought of sending word about Petyr’s death, but decided against it. It was better Jon heard it from her. The only personal letter she’d sent him was to inform him that Bran and Arya were back and safe as they could be in Winterfell.  Jon’s letter could be interpreted in so many ways, none of which she could confirm without having to hear it from Jon himself. She would wait. They needed to trust each other and she would do just that.   

Sansa glanced at the two scrolls of paper on her table. Dark wings, dark words. She’d wait until Bran and Arya are with her before she opened and read them but already, she could feel the awful weight of fear settling inside her chest, almost crushing her heart.

 

* * *

 

“Two ravens, one from Ser Davos and the other from the Lord Commander of Castle Black.” Sansa announced as soon as Arya and Bran had settled on their seats. They had moved away from the dais, opting to seat around a small table.

Maester Wolkan, who had brought her the letters, was seated apart from them, ready to accept instructions. Sam was standing behind Bran, his eyes roving about, trying to hide his curiosity but his dark cloak could not hide his bouncy nervous energy. He had become Bran’s companion; often he would be seen pushing Bran’s wheeled chair around the castle.

Seen from the corner of her eyes, Sansa would feel her heart clenching. Sam was nowhere near the size of Hodor, of course, but the memory of Hodor and Sam’s dark cloak played tricks on her. Sam and Bran had formed a strange friendship, spending many hours together inside the Library Tower. Sansa wasn’t sure what it was they did exactly or what they talked about but she was glad that Bran wasn’t spending so much of his time alone. She hated the thought of Bran in solitary confinement, fighting a silent battle within himself that he could neither explain nor share with them. 

Sansa welcomed Sam’s presence; he was one of the few people she trusted. He was a loyal friend of Jon’s and his time in the Citadel had given them a fighting chance against the Night King and his army of the dead. They would not have known about dragonglass without Sam’s help or the truth of Jon’s parentage. Sam had proven himself not only a reliable friend to Bran, but also as a keeper of knowledge _and_ secrets. Sansa needed men like Sam around them.

Brienne and Pod were quietly standing by door, guarding it, aware of the importance of this hurriedly called for meeting. 

Sansa cleared her throat before she read the first letter, handing the parchment to Arya who idly glanced at it. “Davos will be arriving here soon with the last of the dragonglass they have mined. Daenerys wishes to reorganize her army first before coming here. Jon will stay with her.”

Arya tilted her head, a thoughtful look on her young face. “A chance for us to prepare.” 

“Lady Mormont could meet up with Ser Davos and bring him here directly, to us. We need to talk to him first, find out everything we can about,” Sansa paused, unable to stop herself from scrunching up her nose, “about this new Queen.” 

Arya and Bran remained quiet, waiting for her to continue. Sansa bit her lips, trying to organize her own thoughts. She must not be too distracted by Daenerys Targaryen. There were too many things that needed her attention. To forget one might trigger catastrophic consequences. She cleared her throat. “Brienne and Podrick will handle the transferring and storage of all the dragonglass weapons into the dungeons. They are the only ones, with the exception of Arya, Bran and I that are allowed inside the dungeons. The safe keeping for the dragonglass is imperative. Jon would want to check them, so we must ensure that they are properly stowed.” Not to mention it would allow them to hide Jaime Lannister longer, or until they could decide what to do with him exactly. Arya nodded in agreement, her eyes flickering up to her, acknowledging the hidden reason for this explicit command.

“Maester Wolkan, his Grace would need a list of all the men and women that have been trained and are capable of fighting. They are to be grouped, too: archers, infantry, cavalry, however you see it fit. Also, all the horses that we currently have in the stables, we need to know how many are still strong enough to be used. I have already spoken to Lord Royce and you may come to him for help. He will be more than happy to assist you.”

“As you wish my Lady.” Having noted all her instruction, Master Wolkan promptly left the room. 

Sansa then picked up the letter from the Night’s Watch, absentmindedly tearing off the seal. “Eddison Tollett. Edd. They just call him Edd.” Sansa remembered. “He’s the New Lord Commander." She stopped at the sound of Sam, who seemed to be choking, or laughing, or a strange combination of both. 

"Sorry, my Lady. Go on, please."

"He’s maybe a little reluctant to be that," Sansa amended, "but I don’t think he has a choice, or that they have time to elect a new one. But he’s sensible and had been loyal to Jon.”

“Do you trust him, then?” Arya asked, her glance flickering between her and a red-faced Sam. 

Sansa did not need to think too much. “Yes. I do.” She began unfurling the letter, her eyes squinting at the terrible handwriting.

“The Night Watch does not have enough men to deal with the injured. They are sending the rest of the survivors here in Winterfell.” Bran’s voice, as usual held no emotion when he spoke.

Arya raised her eyebrows as Sansa went over the letter, finally figuring out what seemed like senseless doodling. “Oh, that was an ‘ _e_ ’, then! I had thought it was some strange letter.” She murmured. She would have spent a good few minutes trying to decipher it without Bran’s help.   

“Show off.” Arya muttered, sounding completely unimpressed. Sansa turned to Bran; half expecting that he’d stick out his tongue at their sister. He didn’t, but he was staring at her like he knew that she was waiting for him to be annoying. Sansa prayed for Bran’s boyish smirk and she would have felt absurdly happy if he had given it to her. Instead, Bran frowned and shook his head as though denying that he was boyish and possessed such a smirk.

Arya was the one who stuck out her tongue instead. The more time Sansa spent with her siblings, the more accepting she was of their changes. She hoped it was the same of Arya, who never once glanced at her with worry or distrust, only with guarded affection as though she was scared of being rebuffed. Arya still wasn’t keen on being so overly affectionate. Shaking her head, berating herself for being so easily distracted, she turned her attention back to Sam.    

“Sam, I am tasking you to prepare the largest room in the castle where the wounded can be treated. You and Master Wolkan are the only ones with enough knowledge about healing and taking care of the wounded, but I’m sure you will find the womenfolk ready to assist you.”

“How many injured, My Lady?” Sam asked, looking worried.

“A few Wildlings and The Brotherhood Without Banners.” Sansa answered as she glanced at the letter.

Sam gaped at her, looking perplexed. “The Brotherhood? I’ve heard of them. What could they be doing in Eastwatch, though? I don’t understand how they got there.”

“I’ve spent time with them.” Arya casually threw in, shrugging her shoulders.

“Show off.” Bran muttered earning him a surprised, wide-eyed look from Arya who snorted at him before rolling her eyes.

“This is going to be a long night.” Sansa mumbled, smiling slowly, but it was alright. She had her siblings with her and they were acting near normal. “If you two are quite finished trying to outdo each other, can we go back to planning our next move.”

Arya scoffed. “Why not just ask Bran? Hey, Bran, what are we going to do?” But Bran pressed his lips together and said nothing more. “Yes, that’s very helpful Bran. Thank you very much.”

“Let’s be serious. This _is_ serious.” Sansa reminded them, unable to keep the mothering tone off her voice, which Arya was quick to notice and make fun of.

“Yes, _mother_.” Arya grinned at her.

Sansa happily sighed. Whatever new difficulties they were going to face, it was alright. They could do this. They have survived worst, all on their own, but now that they were together, with Jon already on his way back, they would be able to get through this.

Sansa had to believe it.   


	6. a kingdom of dragons and wights

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon Snow had finally decided to play the game of thrones and Davos thought it was wretchedly ironic, that the once King in the North wasn’t playing it for The Iron Throne or any throne for that matter. He was playing it for his heart, because despite of everything, Jon Snow still had hope.
> 
> And maybe, just maybe, Davos prayed that it would be enough.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ack!!! Ok, this has turned into a complete monster. I don't know how this is going to pan out but it is definitely going to be longer than what I had originally planned. Thank you in advance for reading and still being here. I welcome all your comments and criticism and you know anything you want to say to me.

So four months ago, I had this crazy Idea of how I wanted Season 8 to go down and posted it on tumblr, which you can read [here](http://graceverse.tumblr.com/post/166102327143/what-if). 

* * *

 

**Davos**

The sea undulates beneath groaning wood, the sound reverberating inside the gloomy room where the lone candle on the table recklessly threw shadows across the floor. Its effect, when you watch it, was dizzying. Like having your stomach turned inside out and upside down. He could hear the whipping wind from outside, and from the small porthole, could see flat, endless gray skies. The scent of brine is everywhere, mixed with the inescapable acid-smell of those who had gotten sick on board. Those poor Dothrakis. They all look mighty frightening on land, but on water, they are like sniveling children, green skinned and sick like nothing he had ever seen before and no matter how much the ship’s able crew had tried to clean and wash the vomit off the wooden planks, it had soaked and seeped through the ship. The sour scent is prevalent and Davos Seaworth had never felt more at home.

They were on their way back to Winterfell, travelling through rough winter seas. There was nothing more invigorating than being back on a violently swaying ship, it reminded Davos of the good old days when he had been a pirate. He had been happier back then, hadn’t he? All this politics and king making had aged him faster than he thought  was possible. He wondered, not for the first time, how differently his life would have been if he had not tried to dream impossible dreams for his children. Because, Davos had realized very early on – even before Stannis had decided to fight for his right for the Seven Kingdom – that he had followed Stannis, not for honor or duty or glory or even adventure, but for the dream of giving his sons more. Lands and titles, a castle, a wife with an ancient old name, a life that his children could be proud of.

Legacy. It was what he wanted to give his children. And so off to war he went and now here he was, his dead children no longer lined up for knighthood. All the riches in the world could never bring them back to him.  And even if the dead can be brought back to life, Davos was certain he would never wish such a fate for his children. Let them lie and rest, wherever they are now, it was probably far more peaceful than a kingdom of dragons and wights.  

A large swell seemed to lift up the ship and Davos half smiled at the barely suppressed groan from his companion. Of course, not everyone shared his opinions about the excitement of sailing jagged icy waters. “It’ll calm down your Grace, once we get nearer to White Harbor.”

A muttered, absent minded “aye” and as though realizing something important, Davos watched as the dark head lifted, enough to give him an almost pleading look. “And you can just call me Jon, now. Or Snow. Or anything, really. I – there is something unnerving about being called _that_.” 

“I suppose ‘My Lord’ would do. Seeing as you’re still to keep your title as Warden of the North.”

Jon Snow winced and shook his head. He seemed aggressively unhappy. For someone coming home he looked tired and worried, the dark circles underneath his eyes had made him look more sourly than usual. He had not cared about being King, Davos was sure of this. The title meant little to Jon Snow, but the responsibility it entailed was something the young man took seriously. Perhaps surrendering the crown over to the Targaryen Queen was something that _hurt_ him. Not because it meant losing power, but the ability to at least have some sort of control of the fate of his life and the lives of his family, for to bend the knee is to surrender to the whims of its Sovereign, no matter how good of a Queen Daenerys would turn out to be.

Davos attempted to make light of the matter, for it would do no good to have the Lord of Winterfell skulking in his cabin, looking dejected and forlorn. “If you don’t mind me asking, my Lord, but what is the matter? I mean, apart from the obvious, with the wights and the dragons.” Davos added hastily as Jon gave him a menacing glare only to be replaced by a look of pure, dark sorrow.

“I made a mistake.”  Was all Jon Snow said before shoving his head between his hands, fingers gripping and curling on his scalp, as though he was trying to coax a miserably painful headache out of his skull.

Davos remembered how it was being a father; how his sons would often come to him like this, dark and moody. But he was not sure how to comfort Jon Snow. He was not his son, he was his King.  He fought the urge to gently pat him on the back. It was something he would never have done with Stannis, for the simple reason that Stannis had never admitted to making any mistake. Jon wasn’t Stannis of course. But what kind of Hand would he be if he treated his King like a lost, young boy.

Even though that was exactly what Jon Snow was at that moment.

Perhaps if they could figure out where and when the mistake had been made, perhaps there would be a way of undoing it.

It may have very well happened when they had first arrived in Dragonstone.

 

* * *

 

Dragonstone had always been rough and dark and bleak but it had been his home for some time and he would have been lying if he denied feeling relived at being back in a familiar place, where the memory of Princess Shireen was strongest. Davos could feel her here, in the jagged stones the shape of dragons surrounding them. He could hear her gentle voice in the sound of the waves washing against the shores, her girly-laughter floating in the cold sea breeze. It warms him but makes him shiver all at the same time. A memory of a ghost or a ghost of a memory? Davos had seen too much in his long lifetime to ever deny the existence of lost, wandering souls, of magic.

He wished the Princess _would_ haunt him. He missed her so. Her sweetness, her smart and gentle and kind words as she tried her best to teach him how to read. She would have been a good Queen. She could have ruled the Seven Kingdoms better than anyone. Davos had seen in her the same kind of steely resolved and relentlessness her father had possessed. She was as sharp and evenhanded as Stannis, but was infinitely more caring. She would have educated the poor common folks, would have given them a voice, and would have fought for their rights. She would have been a fair ruler who can look past imperfections for she personally knew the pain of the sick, of the abandoned and the disregarded. Davos remembered how she had never looked down upon an illiterate low born smuggler, once declared a traitor by her own father.

Davos’s memory is filled with a young girl unafraid and willing to protect him from the battles they faced in the North. He welcomed and embraced the bitter sweetness of his loss, for it brought him just a little bit close to the daughter that he never had but loved as much as he had loved his sons. It still haunted him, the imagined last moments of her life. It still made his heart angrily twist at the horrible wrongness of it all. He had witnessed so many terrible things but none could be worse than the Princess’s last hours.

Davos closed his eyes, inhaled deeply, tried to take hold of the anger he felt towards the cursed Red Woman who had brought nothing but damnation upon Stannis and his family and army. The Baratheon line, once so mighty and proud, who have brought the Dragons to its knees, was now gone.

Age had not given him the peace he had so desired. He had thought that he would have enough time, after winning Stannis’s war, to come back to his wife, to live with quiet dignity and wait for his final moments sitting by the sea, reminiscing about his heroics, taking pride in the successes of his sons in King’s Landing. But it was not meant to be. Instead he had lived through so much heartache and disappointments. There were nights when he was ready to give up. He was too old for this, have lost too much already. But he knew that he would not be able to face his sons or the Princess Shireen in the afterlife if he abandoned the fight now. Not when so much more was at stake, not just the vanity of old houses that were all slowly crumbling down.

The return of the Targaryen blood, a new Queen: beautiful, young and proud. And wounded. She would have been a victim of her circumstances. Born during the last dying days of the Targaryen reign and forced to flee her home. Davos could only imagine what her childhood could have been. Not an easy one. He could tell, in the way she had stood in front of them on their first meeting: rigid spine, shoulders squared back, demanding respect, encouraging the fear people would not doubt feel as they faced the Mother of Dragons.

Davos _had_ feared her dragons but not her. He had thought of her as a tiny little golden queen who had no doubt been subjected to the control of the greedy and powerful men around her – as what every girl of royal blood would have had to endure, one way or the other. He pitied her, he felt sorry for everything that she had had to endure. But he also pitied anyone who wanted the Iron Throne. There was something tragic about desiring to rule seven broken kingdoms, trying to control all those Lords and Ladies squabbling over power, money and land.

Daenerys Stormborn and her litany of titles that sounded truly quite impressive but not as extraordinary as the three dragons that, if rumors were to be believed, answers only to her. If she had only those titles but without the dragons, would she even have gone as far as landing in Dragonstone to reclaim her father’s seat of power? From what little that Davos knew of the Free Cities… who could tell? Perhaps she would have wedded a merchant wealthy enough and with the right kind of ambition to finance her ships and her army. Yes, she could still have crossed the Narrow Sea, but what is a Targaryen without dragons?

Davos remembered the stories about the Mad King and he prayed, in a godless sort of prayer, that the Mad King’s Daughter was not touched by the same madness. Flip a coin, they said, when a Targaryen is born and see how it will land.

 _Toss._ Stannis and Princess Shireen would correct him. Toss a coin.

Davos loudly snorted at this and then remembering his silent companion, sneaked a quick glance at his new King, Jon Snow. Dark and moody and so terribly young. Too young to be a King of a land a thousand times harsher than Dragonstone. To live in a time of Young Kings and Queens seems dangerous. How could these children rule over their domains?

That was what he was here for, he supposed. But that was an even scarier thought. He lacked the formal training of being a Hand but he had long ago told himself that there was no sense engaging in self-pity. He would serve his King the best way he could, not with flowery words or the showering of praises and mindlessly patronizing his King. He had done the same with Stannis, had failed spectacularly, but he had gotten rid of that monstrous red witch. He hoped that would be enough. Davos had observed his new King long enough to know that Jon Snow was trying his very best to be brave and smart. A daily challenge, since they were all trapped in an island without any weapon, a prisoner without iron bars.

Jon Snow, at first glance was almost like Stannis. They both seemed to share that same stoic, grim-faced expression, always looking like they ate something acrid, something they want to spit out, but cannot for reasons only known to them. It was not the kind of face that would be diplomatic, to say the least. But that’s where the similarities end. Jon is more compassionate than Stannis. Whether this would prove to be strength or a liability is yet to be seen. 

 

* * *

 

Although they were not welcomed as warmly, they were at least given grand rooms befitting their stations. They slept far from the watery dungeons of Dragonstone but Davos knew this place like the back of his hand. He knew how to get there even in the darkest of night, with Dothraki guards stationed everywhere. Some nights when he couldn't quite sleep, he wound find himself  going back to his old cell, half certain that Shireen’s ghost would be there, waiting for him, an opened book, _The Life and Adventures of Elyo Grivas, First Sword of Braavos,_ sitting on top of the table, waiting for him to continue reading and discovering this new world of eruditions.

He smiled at the image. He was old, his bones ached in the early morning, coldness seeping and settling into his muscles. His chances of surviving this war was something he would not gamble upon, but at least he had been able to spend those nights with his Princess, his fingers following the letters, forming the story inside his head, the warmth of her presence and the proud smile she so freely gave him when he read without his halting, stumbling voice, when he had finally stopped saying, "ka-night"

Oh, such sweet remembrances.

The North did not hold such memories for Davos. The North only reminded him of Shireen and the agonizing way she had died. The North had made him question his loyalty to Stannis. How could he have been so blinded, believing in a man who would willingly burn his own _only_ daughter. His daughter who had given him nothing but trust and love? Shireen was never a lonely child, despite being left alone all too often, all those years. She was bored, she’d complain, there were no books to read, there were no children her age she was allowed to play with, there were no dashing knights that she could day dream about. She was an old child, which was probably why she had turned her attentions and affections towards Davos.

Davos missed her with a constancy that he prayed would never leave him. She was a reminder of what this war was willing to sacrifice without second thought. An innocent beautiful soul, surrounded by snow, engulfed in flames: too pure and gentle for this world of power and greed, of fire and ice.

 

* * *

 

“No ravens from Winterfell, your Grace?” Davos asks, trying to start a conversation. He had been used to Stannis being quiet, but Jon Snow was beyond silent. They could spend hours upon hours together with his King barely saying anything. This was not to say that he was kept in the dark. They had daily discussion of things that were important: the number of dragonglass mined, the scheduling of ships that would bring the dragonglass back to Winterfell. How their men were doing (tired, wary but determined to finish their mission).

Jon Snow gave him a startled look as though unsure who he was addressing. And therein lays the difference from King Jon Snow and King Stannis Baratheon. King Stannis was sure of his place in the world. He stands tall and self-assured, a King ready to take on the Seven Kingdom, a King who had led an army strong enough to take King’s Landing, one that could rival the Lannister forces.

Jon Snow was the exact opposite. Jon has yet to fully slip into the role of a monarch. He thinks like a soldier, makes decisions based on the concept of brotherhood and fairness and that barely-there-hidden-beneath-scowls-naiveté about good and evil. He does not say much, thankfully, which covers up for the lack of training in commanding power. He has had training in leadership, true. He was after all Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch, had even managed to prevent Wildlings from taking Castle Black. But that had ended badly for the boy. There was absolutely nothing worse than being killed by your own men.

Robert and Stannis and Renly, Ned Stark and Jon Arryn, they were all trained to be Lords of great castles and even that is different from being a King. Davos could see potential, but Jon’s ascent to power was too sudden, perhaps even too soon, he might end up making the same mistakes his half-brother, Robb Stark, the last King in the North, had made.  

“San- The Lady Sansa and I agreed that we would not send ravens until it is completely necessary. It’s not safe.”

“A wise decision your Grace.” Davos was always ready to show his support. A young King would need to be guided but he also need affirmation and a just a little bit of fatherly affection could not hurt. Not that Jon seemed to need it, but it was something innate in Davos. Something he could not truly get rid of. He supposed that once you have become a father, you will always be one, even for children not of his own flesh and blood.

“It was her idea, actually. Insisted on it. Almost took out all of the parchments from my trunk.” Jon answered with a half-smile, half-grimace. There was no mistaking the note of pride in his voice.

“She is very wise, your sister.” Davos agreed and not for the first time, he was quite thankful for the presence of Lady Sansa. It was something that Stannis had lacked: the gentle wisdom of a woman who was also brave enough to contradict any ill-conceived strategies. Sansa Stark’s training, undoubtedly from her mother as well as from the two Queens that she had served in Kings Landing had given her the kind of confidence that Jon Snow still lacked. Davos understood that the insecurity his King felt must stem from being born and raised as a bastard, it wasn’t something that could be so easily overcome. But what King Jon Snow lacked in the finer points of being a King, the Lady Sansa was able to compensate. “You have left Winterfell in capable hands.” He added reassuringly.

Jon grunted in reply, worry lines creasing his forehead. “Should I have sent her a raven? You don’t think there would be anyone trying to stop her from sending me a raven?”

By _anyone_ , Davos knows that Jon Snow meant Littlefinger. He had not meant to burden his King. “I am sure there is nothing to worry about. We don’t have much to report anyway, other than we’ve started cracking walls from a different section of the caves. We both know that Lady Sansa is sensible enough to know when to send you a raven. She is protected by Lady Brienne as well. I am sure she is fine.”

Jon’s face darkens with anger. “I left her. I left her in Winterfell with that…” he lets out an explosive breath, grimacing and looking even more dour than usual.  “I promised I’d protect her and here I am, treated more like a prisoner than the King in the North.”

“We are here for the dragonglass.” Davos reminded him and in any case, what choice _did_ they truly have? There were three dragons flying overhead, a daily reminder of how powerless they were. This was not a battle worth fighting for.

Jon nodded in agreement as they walked briskly towards the cave, another day of mining for dragonglass. Davos thinks although he isn’t sure about this, but he’s almost certain that Jon Snow was trying to hide from the Dragon Queen. The longer they stayed here, the more the Northern King looked like he wished he was somewhere else. Sometimes, he seemed like he was somewhere else. His gaze was always far off, dark eyes always looking in one direction: North.

 

* * *

 

They spent most of their time inside the caves of Dragonstone, the King insisting that he join and help the men. He spends time getting his hands dirty, carrying loads of dragonglass, eating with the men, resting as they rested. Davos wondered if Jon was making it clear to his people that he was worthy of being chosen to lead them, regardless of his bastard status. Or because there was something calming about mining the caves, the physical work was grueling, the need for precision kept the mind engaged. It was a concentrated effort that kept one effectively busy. The few times that his Grace went out of the cave were when he was summoned by the Dragon Queen. Davos was not privy to all of their conversation but there was an air of dejection about his King every time he came back from spending time with her. His Grace would always end up clambering up over the jagged hills of Dragonstone, cold wind whipping his dark cloak. Davos had wondered if the King had developed feelings towards the Dragon Queen, he had seen his sons being plagued by love and Jon Snow seemed to be showing all the signs: moodily hiding away from the object of his affection, morosely spending his time alone, always in a state of forlorn sleeplessness, walking aimlessly in the hallways of their chambers in the middle of the night or walking aimlessly so early in the morning along the shores of Dragontstone.

It would not have been altogether surprising. Daenerys Targaryen is exquisitely beautiful and no man would find her unattractive. If Davos had been younger he would have been utterly blind if he did not notice the softness of her face, the delicate curves of her body, and the enchanting color of her eyes. But Davos was an old man and he found that he was more attracted to kindness and the solidity of one’s character that could only be gained in time and by experience. The young falls in love easily and he could not fault his own king if that was the case. And if it would help to forge a much needed allegiances, then what better way than a marriage between two great houses?

Except, it completely contradicted with his observation when he is able to see them together. Jon Snow, a true Northerner, already naturally impassive and guarded, told nothing of the North or of his family. In fact, he had only mentioned his siblings once and only because he was forced to read a raven he had received from Winterfell. For someone trying to create a true and lasting connection – political or otherwise – he was often cold and distant. And Davos wasn’t the only one who seemed confused. He had seen Tyrion Lannister quietly observing Jon Snow and Daenerys Targaryen, always with the hopeful look on his face that was quickly replaced by a confounded frown after a few minutes.

And then Theon Greyjoy arrived. The King who barely showed any emotion, who had so coolly controlled his annoyance when the Queen had mistakenly bypassed Robb Stark as the last King in the North – the very same King – had angrily stalked towards the shivering poor boy. Jon Snow had been shaking with barely suppressed rage, his grey eyes had darkened into an almost black void, his voice lowered in a deadly tone that even Davos had abruptly stopped in his tracks, knowing full well that if his King decided to unsheathe his sword, bodies will be sliced open, blood would be spilled and there was nothing Davos could do to stop it. It was a familiar air of madness that he had sensed in every killing field and it was upon his king.  

And yet somehow, Jon Snow was able to reign it all in. The anger with the force of a dragon’s wing flapping in the air, hot fetid breath filling the air, all of that suddenly gone, turned into the icy assurance that pain, long and intolerable followed by inevitable death, would be held back only because Theon had saved Sansa. The one thing that Theon had done outweighed every betrayal, every Northern blood spilled, all the damage inflicted upon Winterfell, all of that Jon was willing to forget and forgive, because of Sansa.

Davos was not sure what to make of it. Of course, The Lady Sansa was the King’s last remaining kin. A sister that was cherished and protected and surely Davos would have felt the same mix of fury and gratitude for someone who had once hurt his family but had managed to save one of his sons --- but there was something darker than fury in Jon Snow and Davos could not name it, but it was tinged with the familiar shades of reckless abandon of a man battling against his own self.

 

* * *

 

There was a reason why he hated being a Hand, it was a job that demanded him to be honest but careful, wise but deferential and humble, to be accepting of the fact that no matter how wise his advice was, it will not always be followed.

And so when Tyrion, the Queen’s own hand had put forward the plan of bringing a wight back to King’s Landing to convince an allegiance with his sister, Cersei Lannister, Davos had wanted to scream at them that they were barking mad. But he had no choice but to go with his King, who in desperation, thought it would be a risk he was willing to take.  Davos understood that, at least.

But in a completely miscalculated move, he had brought Gendry back to Dragonstone, not to join in on the madness, but to send him back to Winterfell to forge weapons made of dragonglass. He had not anticipated that Gendry and his King would become good friends. He had hoped that they will, of course, but not right away, at least not enough for Gendry to want to go beyond the wall, hunting for the dead.

Davos had been briefly and frankly pleased to find out that Jon and Gendry shared common experiences: the same hurtful childhood spent as illegitimate sons of great and powerful men, the same inherent skills in fighting and the need to do the right thing. For the first time since they had arrived in Dragonstone, Jon Snow seemed genuinely glad to have met Gendry but that pleasure quickly sour. Because of course, when the time came for the wight hunt, it had been inevitable that Gendry join them. Davos regretted bringing Gendry back to Dragonstone. He even presumptuously tried to dissuade his King.

“He’s never even seen snow.”

“How cold is it exactly?” Gendry asked, finally sounding just a little bit apprehensive.

“Cold enough for your balls to fall off.” Davos had answered, trying to coax some sense into the lad. Only Jon had laughed and heartily agreed, “Aye that is true.”

And for reasons truly unfathomable to Davos, Gendry still insisted that he go with them. The foolishness of youth knew no bounds. He understood the reason for the wight hunt and the need for skilled fighters with survival instincts born from someone who grew up in Feal Bottom, it did not change the fact that they were ill prepared and although Davos had several times tried to dissuade Jon, there was no turning back.

As expected, it was chaos and death and Sandor Clegane being a stupid fuck.

They had fled the horror of the true North, where the cold burned and the dead had risen, on the back of fire breathing dragon.

Davos thought that was an escapade enough to last him a thousand lifetimes.

East Watch by The Sea was what nightmares were made of and Davos could not decide whether he was lucky to have survived their ill-conceived plan or if he was meant to live long enough so that he could die a more horrible death as soon as he arrived in Winterfell to tell Lady Sansa that he had allowed her half-brother, The King in The North, to do a foolishly brave thing.

Thankfully his Grace had survived. The lad seemed to have a talent for escaping death. He had been saved by his Uncle Benjen, who had been made a creature of winter, or at least that was what he could understand from Jon. There were things Davos was certainly good at – pirating, fighting, even giving advises (he’d like to think), but understanding the dark magic of the North was just beyond him.

Davos was not sure what part of Jon’s tale was borne out of sheer delirium. His Grace had called upon many names as he drifted in and out of consciousness.  One more often than any other and once he realized this Davos had decided to keep the door locked during this time, barring anyone to enter, including the Dragon Queen. Davos had observed their interaction long enough to understand that Jon was actively withholding information about his family and there was no reason for the Targaryen Queen to hear the King in the North whimpering in his sleep, hoarsely calling out his half-sister’s name in a pleading, hopeless way.

 

* * *

 

Davos had been more than relieved to find himself back in a ship, heading for King’s Landing to meet with Cersei Lannister and let Daenerys and her Hand do all the talking.

The agreement within these warring houses seemed to him a precarious, flimsy thing. Like a glass that would so easily shatter with just one misspoken word or misunderstood declaration. It was no real peace and it seemed fitting, since it was, to him at least, so easily achieved. Not less than a day and everyone was ready to put aside the annihilation of so many families on both sides. The War of Five Kings that had claimed the lives of all Five Kings. There is a harsh irony in that.

Davos had seen true terror in Cersei Lannister’s face when they had shown her the wight they had been able to capture. But she had come back calm and queenly, offering the Armistice that felt… empty. The only one person who looked sincerely worried was the Kingslayer, mouth drawn down, jaws tight with the effort of trying to reign in the distress of planning to march a southern army up North. An army that had never even seen snow, had never even gone as far as the Vale where the air is certainly cold but pales in comparison to the arctic icy breath of death beyond the wall. Davos voiced this concern and as always, his solemn King had so few words to say.

“Aye. I do not trust the Lannisters.” There is a hardened, sharpened tone in Jon’s voice, a quiet kind of fury that chilled Davos’s blood. It spoke of a barely controlled violence, simmering just beneath the surface. “We must prepare for the worst. We cannot let ourselves be vulnerable to attacks from the Lannisters. We will have to speak to Tyrion about it.”

“You trust Tyrion then?”

“Even if he is a Lannister? Aye.  I trust that he will not want to be on the losing side of this war. He will do everything to make sure that he had chosen the right Queen.”

Jon Snow sometimes surprised him with his insight. He may look young and at times, even naïve, but he had a sharp mind. It was to his advantage that he did not talk too much. People tended to underestimate the quiet ones. Perhaps, Davos thought, that was an advantage that Jon Snow was counting on.

 

* * *

 

His Grace had been in a foul mood after finding out the Brienne of Tarth had come in Sansa’s place and had shown it as soon as they had gathered inside their own camp, away from Queen Daenerys and Tyrion’s tent which was heavily surrounded by Dothrakis and The Unsullied. From afar, Kings Landing was lighted up by the thousand burning candles and torches, shadows of soldiers moving and patrolling the area, not at all the kind of thing Davos had wanted to see just hours after a peace treaty had been agreed upon. He wondered briefly where the dragon was. Flying far off, he presumed, safe from arrows that could penetrate its skin. No doubt, it had already been reported to Cersei that the dragons were not at all invincible.

“Would you have rather that the Lady Sansa traveled here, back to this god awful place?”

“Of course I don’t want her here!” Jon very rarely raised his voice, Davos had seen his King in varying stages of annoyance and displeasure, including that one time when he had grabbed Theon Greyjoy by his jerkins, but he had never shouted. This was something he had never seen before. “I don’t want her anywhere outside of Winterfell. But who is protecting her now if you are here?!”

“Well then who did you expect would be better to have come here instead, your Grace?” Brienne asked in a challenging voice. Jon Snow might be her King, but her loyalty is to the Stark sisters and Davos was certain that leaving Winterfell must have been a hard task for the Lady Knight, who was also acting less than her usual calm self. There were bright angry red spots on Brienne’s cheeks. Jon in comparison was pale, jaws clenched tightly.

Nerves are frayed, Davos supposed, but Jon and Brienne seemed unbalance, unhitched by something. Or someone. He did not interfere. Not yet. Arguments were something he had seen many times before. Stannis could be truly terrifying when he was angered. Brienne had probably seen and experienced worst.

“Baelish.” Jon nearly spat out the name. “She should have sent Baelish. I’d rather keep my eyes on him or better yet, leave him here, where he belongs.” A curios glint of satisfaction crossed Jon’s face and Davos wondered, not for the first time, of what was Littlefinger’s connection to all these chaos that was threatening to overwhelm them.

“She needs Lord Baelish there to control the Vale. You know that.”

Jon visibly bristled at this, right exactly at the word “ _need”._ Davos watched as The King in the North boldly stepped towards Brienne. He’d forgotten that Jon Snow was nowhere near Brienne’s height, but his anger seemed to have given him added inches.

“My Lady, I respect and trust you, you know that. But you will answer to me, if any harm comes to her.”

Brienne, never to cower, especially to men, king or not, also took a step forward. “I left The Lady Sansa with your sister, Lady Arya. You do not know this yet, but she is a capable fighter. I would never put them at risk!”

Davos had to clear his throat as Brienne very nearly matched Jon’s booming voice. It was one thing for a King to be angrily shouting at one of his subjects, but it would not do Jon Snow, a newly crowned King, any good to have his subjects acting so impudently. 

Brienne and Jon sharply turned their heads towards him and must have realized how highly inappropriate this all was. It was, as befitting, Brienne who backed down, quickly taking the knee, bowing her head in apology. “I am sorry if I have displeased you, your Grace. But I am leaving tomorrow, at the first sign of day to head back to Winterfell.” She looked up at Jon, meeting his gaze. “Your sisters are safe. I promise you that.

Color had returned to Jon’s face. He took a quick step back and shook his head, looking slightly abashed. He didn’t have to be, he was king after all, and Davos would probably have to remind him of this later on. Jon Snow clearly thinks he is not above being sorry.  “Apologies accepted, My Lady, if you shall accept mine as well. You had not displeased me. I am only worried.”

Brienne heaved a deep, tired sigh as she slowly stood up. “Please, your Grace, I understand. I am sorry that the Lady Sansa and I had failed to inform you beforehand that I was coming. The ravens –”

Jon shook his head, closed his eyes and echoed Brienne’s sigh, waving a hand indicating that there was no further explanation needed. Davos watched as Jon nervously swallowed, before turning around to sit behind his table. He looked worn out but there was a flash of something almost cheerful in his expression. An almost hopeful smile as he asked Brienne, “Arya. You said Arya is a capable fighter. Is it true? How is she? And Bran? How is Bran? Will you tell me about them?”

Brienne let out a small smile. “Of course, your Grace.”

Later that night, Davos found himself nervously worrying about his King, who seemed, strangely, unable to say Lady Sansa’s name.

 

* * *

 

Davos found Jon Snow alone standing by the quarter deck. The Targaryen sigil, black and red and proud flapping wildly above them, as though using all it's power to resist the ice that was slowly crawling up to the mast. It was freezing and Davos could feel his muscles starting to tense as the cold sea air blasted him. He had forgotten that he had never set sail during winter and at the same time, he remembered how cold he had felt Beyond the Wall during that awful night when they had sat on an island of ice watching the dead watch them. This was impossibly colder.

“We’ve passed Moat Cailin.” Jon declared. It sounded like a reprimanded since Davos had failed to come up earlier.

Jon had insisted that he ought to see the Moat Cailin as they approached it, as though it was a Northerner’s ritual that must be followed, but it looked more like a punishment that he had to endure. The cold was a stabbing force and Jon looked almost half dead, as though he had not slept for days and he probably has not.

Davos had known what had happened the previous night and although it was something intimate and personal, Jon had disclosed it because even though he was no longer The Hand of the King, Jon had needed an advice. Or a friend, at least. Davos had only listened and it seemed exactly what Jon had needed. He'd never heard Jon Snow talk so much, but he talked all through the night, outlining and enumerating his many fears. There was no time to prepare the North for a war against the Dead, even if they had enough weapon, there was no way they could fight an army that never got tired, never slept, didn't need to eat or drink or rest. They needed the dragons but the dragons will not fly North, not until he bends the knee. And even if they win the war against the Night King, the dragons will burn King's Landing, then it will fly North and demand that they bend the knee. What then? Will more lives be sacrificed for another war? 

What choice did he have? Jon Snow did what he had to do. What Tyrion had urged him to do.

"But it was me. I did it. I made the choice. I lied. I pretended. And I-- I have to live with it, I know that. I understand that. But will they? Will I be called a traitor when I get home? Will they all say that the bastard son of Ned Stark had betrayed what Robb had died and fought for?" 

These were questions that Davos did not have the answer to, nor was he in a position to judge anyway. What will happen next was completely out of their control. The North may or may not understand. Who could tell? But Davos understood what Jon Snow was going through right at this very moment. And he was stunned to realize where exactly the mistake was made.

It was the gods who were cruel, who played this trick on men and women. Who made it impossible for a young man to love a woman, because she had been born as his half-sister. The songs and stories about heroes and villains were all deceptively simple. Life was not like that all. Davos had grown up thinking that right and wrong were two clear, separate paths, easy to choose and to follow. He had learned over the years that they over lapped and sometimes converged together. 

He had seen men like Jon Snow, who had, all their lives tried to take the path of the brave and noble. But evil men were brave too, born from noble houses and the more you live, the more you realize that men are foolish enough to think that there was ever a clear divide between good and evil. There is, of course, but it is a fine line and the path towards it is riddled with potholes, thick with thorns that cut and scrape, there is dirt and mud everywhere. The pristine white ideals of men had to be stained. And in the end, the best thing one could do was to try and live as kind and brave and honorable as they could, given the circumstances.

War is the worst circumstance of all. Winter has arrived, the dead are coming and dragons are flying past them, overhead, the sound of their wings like a far off echo of thunder and madly beating drums. This was no time for right or wrong, or heroes in songs. This was a time when men like Jon Snow had to go against everything they had believed was their path to love and glory.

It was not courage though, that made Jon Snow bend the knee. It was desperation and guilt and the dark impulse of a man who had decided that the desires of his heart were already dead to him, to be disregarded and forgotten. Davos could see it in the grimness of Jon Snow’s face, the lack of light in his dark eyes.

“The Lady Sansa has replied, my Lord. She is sending Lyanna Mormont to escort me and the last of the dragonglass to Winterfell.”

Jon had nothing to say that, he nodded his head, his dark hair sprinkled with white snow. “I remember her little rhyme when she was a girl.” He said instead and Davos wondered if staying outside for so long, in this weather had brought on a fever.

“My Lord, should we go inside? We will be dropping anchor soon. The Queen will be looking for you.”

“The Queen.” Jon murmured, looking away. “No ravens yet from the Citadel?” He asked, brows furrowing.

Davos shook his head. “No My Lord.” He watched as Jon Snow gripped the wooden rails, his face inscrutable.

Jon Snow had finally decided to play the game of thrones and Davos thought it was wretchedly ironic, that the once King in the North wasn’t playing it for The Iron Throne or any throne for that matter. He was playing it for his heart, because despite of everything, Jon Snow still had hope.

And maybe, just maybe, Davos prayed that it would be enough.  


	7. desperately played gamble

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It had been so long since Jon had last seen her, he could feel the number of days like a dead weight inside his chest and Jon was not sure how he was still able to stand up when his knees felt like melted snow. There was a new kind of pain inside his heart and Jon was not sure if it was the sheer happiness of seeing her again or the reminder of how wretchedly painful it had been when they last parted.

So a few months ago, I had this crazy Idea of how I wanted Season 8 to go down and posted it on tumblr, which you can read [here](http://graceverse.tumblr.com/post/166102327143/what-if) and this is me, trying to write it in a saner way. Although I am starting to think that there will be some changes from the original draft. 

* * *

 

**Jon**

White Harbor had grown from The Wolf’s Den, many generations ago. The Starks have given this land to the Manderlys in exchange for their fealty, after they have fled The Reach. Jon Snow had not mentioned this to Daenerys. He did not think it would be something that she would find particularly welcoming. And in any case, he was too busy trying to let her understand that the North might not so easily accept her as their Queen. They can and **_will_** see reason, after all, they were practical people but it would take patience and firm coaxing from their part. Threatening them with dragons was not the way to go. The North does not react well to force, especially not when they know that they have one crucial advantage against an invading army: winter.

Not to mention the Wildlings residing in Winterfell. At least the Northerners had tolerated being under the rule of other Kings or Queens but the Wildlings would never allow themselves to bend their knees, they’d fight to remain free of control from any sovereign rule.

“You make them all sound like complete savages.” Dany had noted and Jon shook his head. The Northerners are hospitable and peace loving people, but they were not exactly quick to warm up to outsiders, more so now, after having gone through so much loss from the previous war with the South.

Dany had said that she understood but had insisted too, that it was not an invasion, at all. Merely putting things to right, just the way it had been for thousands and thousands of years. As for the North’s inherent mistrust for the South, well, she was not exactly a Southern princess was she? She was a Targaryen Queen. And she need not remind him that the Starks **_had_** long ago bent their knees to the Targaryens. She was just reclaiming what the usurpers have taken from her family. Which was well within her right, wasn’t it?

With two dragons flying with her, the answer was a resounding yes, of course, but Jon had shut his mouth and forced himself to swallow down his argument. The North had already declared their freedom long before Daenerys had even set foot in the Dragonstone. They had lost their beloved Warden, their crowned King, their homes, their families and friends in the struggle to free themselves from the rule of Kings sitting on a throne at a city a thousand leagues away from them. Kings who do not understand their way of life and who make up laws for them to follow, taxes to pay, and gods that they needed to worship.

All of that did not matter, not to Daenerys who already had a vision in her mind. All her life, she had been told that the Seven Kingdoms belonged to her father and her father’s father, going back to a thousand generations before her time. That it was her right and her duty to rule over them. The North belonged to her; she will not rule six kingdoms, but all seven. And who is to say that once she had given the North their freedom, others would not follow suit? What then will she be Queen of? Dragonstone? She did not sacrifice so much just to end up with an island and a cave already stripped off of its riches.

He could see it from the way Daenerys was smiling fondly at him that there was nothing he could say that would change her mind. She thought him a poor King since he did not seem to comprehend the politics of staying in power. But if he had insisted in being King in the North, she would not have allowed her dragons to fight against the Night King. It was not as if he had any real choice.  

Jon remained quiet even after Dany had taken his hand, squeezing it gently as she reassured him that the North had everything to gain if they fought with and for her. She would remember them as her first real ally, she would be a fair and just Queen and the North would thank her and eventually love her once she had shown them what she was capable of doing.

He grunted in reply, wondering if Dany had merely forgotten about Highgarden, Dorne and the Iron Islands, who had all failed in her eyes, to prove their worth.

 

* * *

 

White Harbor is the smallest of the major cities in Westeros, this Jon had told her, even before they had set sail and from the way Dany’s eyes had flicked up at New Castle, the seat of the Manderlys, and roamed almost haughtily down towards the harbor’s outer sea wall, its line of towers stretching a mile long, the Stark standards flying in each of the towers, Jon could immediately sense her growing disappointment.

There were no Manderly sigils in sight. Not yet, of course. They were still trying to prove their loyalty after they have cowardly remained neutral during the Battle of the Bastards. Having the Stark sigil fly over their domain was the loudest way to announce their new found fidelity. An empty gesture, as far as Jon was concerned. And even if it had been Wyman Manderly who had called him the “White Wolf” Jon still did not fully trust him or his people. They have failed to raise their banners when the daughter of their liege lord had asked for support. Jon would never forget that.

“Is this it, then?” Dany asked coldly and Jon could not help but shiver as he stepped closer towards her, their shoulders brushing. Dany did not seem to notice. It was quiet obvious that The Dragon Queen did not think too much of the North’s only city.

Jon could imagine what Dany thought of White Harbor. She had told him of the grandness of the cities that she had conquered: Yunkai, Astapor, Mereen. She told him of its great beautiful towers, garden palaces and pyramids so tall, you had to tilt you head up to see it’s golden point, none of which she had seen in Westeros. No matter, she would have the same majestic palaces built once she began her reign. She told him of the people who had cheered her, called her Mother, and lifted her up with their hands, thankful to finally be freed from their masters that had enslaved them since the beginning of time.

“And what of them, now?” Jon had asked as he tried to envision a desert city, dusted with gold, filled with jewels and riches no one in Westeros had even thought possible.

“What do you mean?” Dany asked, perplexed, her silver-gold eyebrows scrunching up at she looked at him.

“Are you meant to rule them too as you rule in Westeros?”

“Of course, my love. I can easily fly there if I wanted to. Drogon would have no problem crossing the Narrow Sea. I could leave trustworthy men or _women_ to rule on my behalf. It is not an impossible task.”

Jon had not been sure whether to be duly impressed or horrified by the thought of conquering so many nations, so many people, all under her rule. How much power did Dany want? Where will she stop? Will the Seven Kingdom be enough? She still had two dragons; she could go even beyond the wall, further yonder the Narrow Sea. New places Jon could never have dreamed or imagined. A chill had seeped into him; it had felt like ice cold hands closing over his heart.  

“Where are the people?” Dany demanded, pulling Jon out of his reverie.

Jon followed her line of gaze and saw nothing but snow. It was almost like Moat Cailin, in all its abandoned glory. A place that time had forgotten. Jon nervously licked his dry lips. They did not come unannounced, he had in fact written to Sansa letting her know the day they will be arriving, good weather permitting. Something Tyrion and Dany were well aware of. Jon had assumed that some Lordling or captain from the Vale would welcome them to White Harbor. He had hoped for that, it would have given him more time to prepare Dany for how the North would receive them. He did not expect wildly cheering crowds, but this was altogether unnerving.

It wasn’t the smallness of the place that had displeased Daenerys. It was the fact that apart from the Stark colors greeting them, there were no indication whatsoever that that the Targaryen army was being warmly received by the North. In fact, the closer they got towards the main harbor, the quieter it became. It as was as though White Harbor had become a ghost town, with nothing but snow and ice and the familiar silent, gray direwolf watching their approach.

"I don't know Dany." Jon admitted. There was no use trying to make up lies or excuses. He watched as Dany continued to sullenly stare at winter desolation. "Inform me, My Lord, once we are about to dock." And without waiting for his response, turned and went back inside the ship.

 

* * *

 

 

“No birds.” Davos said, squinting as his eyes roamed the skies.

Jon looked up and nodded. “Aye,” he knew exactly why. Dragons. Everywhere they go, there were no birds. Even the sea gulls in Dragonstone had all but disappeared and now it was the same. The winter birds have all gone; perhaps they have sensed the presence of something larger than them, something that could so easily hunt them and had wisely fled somewhere safe.

Daenery’s Dragons were flying somewhere behind them. He silently prayed that they will choose a remote part of the North to rest and haunt. It would not do them any good if the dragons end up burning a small village. Or something far worse than that. Jon refused to think about it. It was too late for that now. There was no turning back. He could only steel himself for the consequences of his actions. He would have to face them head on, whatever it, may be.

He closed his eyes, took a deep breath. The wintry coldness of the air settled deep into his lungs and yet, he did not feel at home. Home was Winterfell, still a few days away. They would be staying at White Harbor to organize the army. The unspoken reason, of course, was to give the Dothrarkis and the Unsullied time to get used to the North’s climate.

It was useless of course. There was no possible way for an army that had never seen, never step foot on black ice to acclimate themselves so quickly. Even Northerners were wary of winter and they have lived all their lives with snow and biting cold. It was part of who they were but their survival was never always guaranteed. It would be a struggle, travelling from White Harbor to Winterfell, and even more of a challenge fighting Beyond the Wall.

Still standing safe up on the Targaryen ship, Jon could only wince as they watched the first batch of Unsullied and Dothrakis gingerly stepping into the cold mush of snow and mud. The silence reverberated with the hushed awe of a people seeing something they have never even dreamed of for the first time.

Dothrakis and Unsullied, slipped, tried to regain their balance, flapped their arms about, tried to grab someone to steady them. It worked for most, but some still slipped and fell, thudding into the ground of hard packed snow, curses in several different languages broke the quiet, followed by the boisterous laughter and teasing from those who were able to get their footing. Some who were laughing ended up falling on their asses too.

Someone had told Dany that they have dropped anchor and Jon watched as she regally strode over to where he and Davos were standing, Missandei and Grey Worm following closely behind. Jon had to press his lips really, really tightly so he wouldn’t smile. The Dothraki horde that had soundly defeated the once mighty Lannister army did not look threatening. At all. Jon was almost half thankful that no one had welcomed them at witnessed this rather clumsy display from the Dothrakis. 

Dany settled next to him, her face unreadable. 

"Your Grace," Jon said, by way of greeting. But before Dany could even respond, there was a loud shriek that tore through the chaos. Jon whipped his head in time to watch as someone stepped and fell into a waist deep puddle. A gurgled scream of panic erupted as Dothrakis and Unsullied converged on the spot, spears and arrows drawn.

Are they going to attack melted ice?!

“No, step back! Step back you fools!” Jon found himself shouting. The last thing they need was to have half of Daenery’s army freezing to death. Beside him, he heard Dany sharply ordering them in Dothraki and Missandei quickly giving Grey Worm further instructions. Dany’s voice, although strong and commanding, held a slight nervous tremor he hadn’t heard before. She had seen what was beyond the wall. She had watched raging blizzards perched high upon Drogon’s back. But this would also be her first time to really understand that winter itself was an adversary that they needed to be wary of.

“Don’t ever call them fools, Jon Snow.” Dany turned to him, voice low and clipped, her eyes blazing.

Jon blinked and realized his mistake at once. He bit his tongue and in a tender voice, apologized for his outburst. “I’m sorry your Grace. I had not meant it that way. I’m only worried that this,” he waved his hand around the scene before them, “would be too much of a shock for them. Winter is harsh and unforgiving.”

“My army will be fine, my Lord.” Her shoulders were tensed, filled with unspoken reprimand.

“Of course, My Queen.” Jon had to remind himself that Dany did not take any sort of criticism lightly. Even the perception of weakness was not tolerated. He watched grim faced as Ser Jorah Mormont shoved the converging group of curious men who did nothing to help but had instead watched with fascination a fight between their Dothraki brother and unseen force that was slowly turning his face blue. Mormont quickly knelt down, grabbed the poor Dothraki in the arm and pulled him out, dragging him away from the icy hole. From where they were standing, Jon could hear teeth chattering, could see the clouds of breaths from soldiers and horses. The rising murmur around, though he did not understand their tongue, but from the way the both Dothrakis and the Unsullied stood huddled together, hands squeezing, rubbing together, Jon knew what they were saying. _Cold. Too bloody fucking cold._

They’d all been given winter garments, of course, wools and thick pelts from the pillaged Highgarden, at least whatever they could save from after the Lannister army had plundered. It felt more like scavenging to Jon, but he’d learned his lesson from The Night Watch and had shut his mouth. Lannisport too had some autumn clothing to be had, but whatever they had taken could not be enough. Those houses never had to fear being frozen to death; they never had to store winter clothing nor even make much of them. The higher commanding officers probably got the best choices and whatever remained was distributed to the foot soldiers. Not much of a difference from Westeros army, then, Jon thought disdainfully.

From the corner of his eyes, Jon saw Tyrion Lannister, who had not been able to witness the little accident, waddling his way towards them. He was holding a folded thick winter fur the color of snow, with pale blue trimmings.

“A gift, for your first winter.” Tyrion said, smiling jovially as he presented it with a low bow to Daenerys. _For conquering the North_ was the tacit message and Jon felt a burst of white hot anger, quickly followed by the burning shame of remorse.

He watched silently as Dany accepted it with raised eyebrows, looking rather pleased. Thankfully, she seemed to have forgotten Jon offending her army – who were still floundering in the snow, although admittedly, they were coping far better than a few minutes before.  That was something encouraging at least.

Missandei cooed at the soft material before helping Dany into her new coat and Jon could not help but be baffled by Tyrion’s choice of gift. It was exquisite true, he had spent enough time with Sansa to know which kind of materials she liked best, the few and precious velvet and silk and laces that she’d been able to rummage through her mother’s old trunks always put a delighted smile of her face, her blue eyes lit up and filled with unexpected joy. Tyrion’s gift looked like the kind of cloth Sansa would have loved but the colors were all wrong.

Daenerys would stand out in pristine white clothing at King’s Landing, a statement of the purity of her intention for the Seven Kingdom. At Dragonstone, too, where dark clouds hover just inches from the gray stormy horizon. She would be a vision then, a goddess that glowed with every lightning bolt slicing through the skies.

But not in the North.

In her luxurious white pelt, with her pale skin and silver-gold hair, she would blend in, washed out by the stark colors of winter.

Already Jon was having a hard time focusing his attention on her as she stood against the white expanses of virgin snow. Jon could not help but let his eyes flutter close as he remembered the rich auburn halo that formed around Sansa’s head as she turned towards him, the warm afternoon sun hitting her at an angle that made her look softer, almost younger. The autumn hues of her hair, a lovely contrast against the bluish-white tint of freshly fallen snow. He missed her. He dreaded the moment he would finally see her, after months of being away from her. He knew exactly what he wanted to do the moment he stepped inside Winterfell. He imagined wrapping his arms around her, resting his tired head against her shoulder, feeling the warm puffs of air as she sighed his name…when he opened his eyes, he found Dany smiling sweetly up at him.

“Do you like it, My Lord?” she asked, attempting to hide the coyness in her voice.

Jon was meant to notice of course and he murmured a nervous, breathless “Aye, your Grace.” Whatever further compliment he was expected to give her had died and turned into cinders inside his mouth.

“Has your sister arrived?” Tyrion asked, glancing up at him, a wicked grin briefly flashing on his disfigured face. “I’ve brought her a gift as well.”

Jon tried not to clench his jaw, but kept his steady gaze at Tyrion’s face. _What are you playing it, Imp?_ But Tyrion just met his eyes, his expression unchanging, waiting for his answer.

This is a game. Jon thought to himself. This is all a game and he is testing me. He forced himself to say something, but found that he was too angry to speak and he was in fact, clenching his jaws so tightly, he could feel it starting to ache.

“Have you? Should I be jealous?” Dany asked, her mouth forming a playful pout, seemingly unaware of the exchange between her Hand and her current paramour.

 _Paramour._ Jon had to wince at that. His own mind had supplied the term and he could not deny it anyway. He remembered when he had succumbed to Ygritte’s seduction and although he bore a measure of guilt, he had already been half-way in love with her to ever truly regret breaking his vows. With Dany, they did not have enough time. He had not been able to at least get to know her – _Daenerys,_ the woman – and not just Daenerys Targaryen and her many impressive titles.  She was sweet and smart and strong and capable and impossibly beautiful. All the things he had wanted in a woman, but it failed to stir in him the same kind of delicious torture he had felt with Ygritte. It didn’t even come close to the heart wrenching torment he felt every time he thought of his half-sister.

Tyrion quickly shook his head. “No, no, My Queen. It is a goodwill gift. The Lady Sansa has been kind to me when she had been in King’s Landing. I only wish to show her my gratitude. As you know, we parted ways quite suddenly.”

“She’ll be pleased to see you then?”

There was a teasing tone in Dany’s voice that made Jon forget about trying to control his annoyance. “I would not hold my breath.” He muttered darkly and it was Tyrion’s turn to give him a long hard look.

 _Don’t be an idiot._ It seemed to say. But Jon ignored it, just as he ignored the searching glance he could feel coming from Daenerys. She could think whatever she wants to. Later, he could convince her that it had been a long journey and he had been tired or that he did not like his sister being talked about as though he wasn’t there. As an older brother he was allowed to feel protective of his sister, was he not?

Jon could not help but grimace at the bitter irony of his flimsy excuse. From beside him, he heard Davos coughing. But Jon ignored him as well. He hated this. He hated all of this. His patience and resolve were quickly fading and he had not even stepped unto winter soil. What was he to do one he arrived in Winterfell? He dreaded coming home in the same way that he longed for it. The two intensely warring emotions were making him tired and careless. He had to keep his focus.

 _Smarter than father and Robb._ Sansa’s voice echoed inside his head.

He half listened as Davos cleared his throat after a bout of pretend-coughing. “Apologies, your Grace. But it is too cold outside, perhaps we should go—” but he was effectively cut off by the sound of heavy hooves trampling through the woods, the blast of horn signaling the arrival of the North’s welcoming party, sigils flying in the cold winter air.

Jon had been expecting the black, white and green flags of House Mormont but he was especially taken aback by the Stark sigil, flying high over the banners. There were about thirty men wearing Stark colors and another twenty with the rampant black bear sewn on their armor. Not at all threatening, at least and still no sign of the Manderlys, Jon noted completely unsurprised.

He could only guess that Lord Manderly and his people had locked themselves inside the castle, which would also explain the emptiness of what was supposed to be a bustling harbor. Even in the dead of winter, trade never truly stops. A wise choice, to have kept the people of White Harbor away from an army they knew nothing about. Sansa’s decision, probably, quickly agreed upon by Lord Manderly, how convenient for him to be told to stay put in his castle and wait things out.  

Which would mean two things: a camp has already been set up for them somewhere outside White Harbor, a safe distance both from the inhabitants of the city _and_ the Targaryen ships. And it is highly likely that the Lady of Winterfell had come to pay her respect to the North’s new Queen, for who else could explain and soothe a pricked pride at the lack of cheering crowds that Dany had so hoped to greet her.  She probably brought Littlefinger with her.

Jon felt his heart pounding, could feel it inside his skull. He straightened his back, craned his neck and wondered if he was ready to see her. To face her. He didn’t think so. He didn’t think he’d ever get over the initial jolt of finally seeing her after so many days and nights spent trying to get rid of his ever growing feelings for her. Distance had done absolutely nothing to quell his desire for his half-sister – all those nights of dreaming of her, imagining her, wanting her… he stiffened slightly as he felt Dany’s small hands clutching at his arm.

“Shall we meet them?” She asked, as she looked up at him. There was redness in her cheeks, a glow of excitement in her eyes. And not for the first time, Jon could see why many men would find her irresistible; he could understand the attraction, why they would follow her to war, would sacrifice their lives. And yet, when he held her hands and gently led her towards the plank that would lead them out of the ship, Jon felt nothing. There was only a dull humming sound in his ear, like white noise, and the constant ache inside his heart.

To be near her again, Jon knew, would be an unbearable agony. To want and to never have. It was not right. It was not allowed. And she must never ever know, never suspect a thing.

Jon took a deep breath and squared his shoulder. He would have to bear it. It was something he was actually good at, at least. 

* * *

 

It had been so long since Jon had last seen her, he could feel the number of days like a dead weight inside his chest and Jon was not sure how he was still able to stand up when his knees felt like melted snow. There was a new kind of pain inside his heart and Jon was not sure if it was the sheer happiness of seeing her again or the reminder of how wretchedly painful it had been when they last parted.

He wanted nothing more than to walk up to her, take her face in his hand, look into her eyes that were alive and warm; throw his arms around her and give her the fiercest hug; he wanted to nuzzle his face on the crook of her neck and smell Winterfell in her hair, in her skin, in that oh-so-painfully familiar smile. He remembered the last time she had jumped into his arms, how terribly, frightfully small she had been back then. He needed to be able to wrap his arms around her and allow himself to believe that she was really here, alive and well. 

Arya. His fierce, brave little Arya. 

But she stood a few paces behind Lady Mormont, her face completely unreadable, her head held high, reminiscent of Lady Catelyn Stark, proud, cool and distant. 

As expected several huge tents had been set up for them and Jon was shaken by the immediacy of the meeting between Daenerys Targaryen, Lady Mormont and Lady Sansa Stark – such a volatile combination! – but only to be thrown into a storm of emotions as soon as he saw Arya.  

Jon could not stop his heart from slowly dropping into the bottom of his stomach. He could feel a mild panic rising in his chest and he had to use all of his willpower to calm himself down.

Arya will never bend the knee to any Southerner, dragons or no dragons. He knew that. But he had hoped that Sansa would have at least explained his reason behind giving up his title. She had believed him about the horrors beyond the wall and Arya would have taken Sansa seriously had she told her about it.

Had Sansa not told Arya about the army of the dead?

Jon tamped down the irrational fear creeping up his spine. If Arya was aware of the danger heading towards them, surely she would’ve understood why he had to bend the knee? Perhaps Sansa had been swayed, yet again by that filthy snake Baelish to turn against him. But Sansa could not have been so easily influenced, not after what they have been through…there was something dreadfully wrong with the way Arya was refusing to even look at him.

Daenerys, to her credit, looked both slightly impressed and curios at the chosen welcoming emissary of the North. Two girls, dark and somber, swaddled in heavy furs and quilted leather. This might be a sight new and refreshing for her. She had always dealt with grown men, who more often than not, lusted over her, but never with Northern girls with steel on their eyes and on their hips.  

Daenerys might think this as the North’s subtle and less embarrassing way of letting her know that they have accepted her dominance over them but Jon knew Northern girls better. They were not chosen to put Dany and her retinue at ease. Far from it. Nothing represented the North better than Lady Mormont and Arya Stark. They were neither soft nor dainty, have no use and no love for the long winding, overly-polite, flowery words of the South. They will more likely be wary and so utterly indifferent with whatever Dany or worst, Tyrion, will have to say to them. 

Jon decided that it was best he opened up the conversation, “Lady Mormont, Ladya Stark.” He gave a small nod towards the two girls, his glance lingering over at Arya. She tilted her head, but her face remained impassive. Jon swallowed hard. This will be a very tricky situation. At least Sansa had not sent Petyr to welcome them. He wasn’t sure how he would’ve reacted. 

Somewhere behind him, he distinctly heard Jorah Mormont clearing his throat. The young Lyanna did not seem to hear, nor notice her first cousin. Instead she turned her cold eyes towards him, raised her eyebrows and in an all too clear, all too forceful voice, greeted him with a simple, “Snow,” her lips curling up in a barely hidden sneer.

A ripple passed through every one inside the room. Glances were made. He could feel eyes boring at the back and sides of his head. 

Ah. So. The fickle minded Lords of the North had decided to treat him as a bastard once more. After everything that he had gone through in Dragonstone and Eastwatch. He was now back to being the Bastard of Winterfell. It would not have hurt as much, had Arya not been there, silently looking at him, her face unchanged. 

He had not expected to taste ashes at the back of his mouth. He remembered vividly how Lady Lyanna had stood up for him, had given him a kind nod, a ghost of a smile as she had declared for him. She had been the first one to give him the title King in the North and now he understood why she was here with Arya. Jon felt his heart constructing painfully at the contempt and regret clearly shining in her eyes.

Daenerys remained seated, but already Jon could feel her annoyance, it was clear with the way Tyrion had suddenly wobbled up next to him, clearing his voice, “Lord Snow, has not told us that your will be arriving to welcome us, Lady Arya. We have not received any ravens.”

Jon swallowed hard. He had received a raven telling him that Lyanna Mormont would be escorting Davos and the rest of Jon’s men back to Winterfell. There was no mention of Arya joining them. He wondered if Sansa had intentionally not told him.

“None were sent.” Lady Mormont answered without a waver in her voice. She looked so thoroughly unimpressed with the Dothraki guards, who admittedly, did not look as intimidating, not when they were covered with furs to protect them from the cold that they were so unaccustomed to.  “We are only here to escort Ser Davos and the rest of the Northerners back to Winterfell.  As we understand, you need to organize your armies first. But if your intention is to march towards Winterfell before heading Beyond The Wall, then there are certain conditions that needs to be met before that is allowed. We’re here to make sure that you agree before we let you pass.”

Jon felt bile rising from the pit of this stomach. Lyanna and Arya will not need an army to stop Dany and her army from passing through White Harbor, they would just quietly stand by and watch as the Dothraki and the Unsullied, awkwardly plow their way through inches deep of snow. Jon winced. Nothing was more obvious to the Northerners. A Southern army that has never even heard of winter, let alone seen snow, has come to save them. They’d find that funny. And deeply insulting

They haven’t seen the dragons yet, Jon reminded himself. He could still salvage this disastrous meeting.

“Allowed?” Tyrion asked, glancing first at him and then back at Daenerys who has yet to say anything. “It was my impression that you needed our help.”

“We do.” Lyanna answered coolly, as though that cleared everything up. “We have brought some grains, salted meat and cloaks for your armies. What we can spare at least. We are, of course, assuming that you have brought your own provisions but please consider them as our gift of thanks for the Lady and her Dragons.”

It wasn’t a ripple this time, but an audible hiss that filled that room.

Missandei immediately walked towards them, “Lady? You stand in the presence of Daenerys Stormborn,” but she had barely started her usual introduction, the long litany of Daenery’s titles, when Arya started rolling her eyes and Lady Mormont, suddenly and effectively cut her off with her usual deadpanned voice, “I know no King _or_ Queen, but the one in the North whose name is Stark.”

And there it was.  

A roar erupted inside the tent. Swords were drawn, but Lyanna and Arya barely flinched.

Dany remained seated, but he heard her take a deep breath. Jon instinctively tightened his hands around the pommel of his sword, sure of only one thing: he will die protecting his sister.

“Your King has bent the knee.” It was spoken in an eerily calm voice, the anger simmering just below the surface.

“He is no longer our King, then.” Lyanna answered with a shrug, as though it was of little consequence, “If Jon Snow has decided to bend the knee, then that is his choice. But I have not bent the knee. House Mormont still answers to House Stark, as all the Northern houses do.”

“They have made me their King, your Grace,” Jon said, addressing Dany, “they can and have unmade me King. Titles mean nothing to me,” he added, looking straight at Lady Lyanna, whose face remained as severe as he had remembered it. “We are all here to fight against the darkness that will soon devour not just the North, but the whole realm. This is neither the time nor the place to pledge allegiances.”

Lyanna was not at all moved by his impassioned speech. “We are here to kindly request, in behalf of Sansa Stark, Lady of Winterfell, that if you wish to pass through Winterfell, then your dragons must remain here in White Harbor.”

Jon had become, over the many weeks spent together with the Dragon Queen, aware of the many subtle changes in her mood. He had learned to read the tone of her voice, the way she clasped her hands in front of her, the way she would throw her shoulder back, the way her eyes would slowly narrow –he had them all cataloged and remember, it was important that he could read her. He had also learned that Tyrion was just as aware as he was and would react accordingly.

Before Dany could even say anything, Tyrion was quick to take hold of the conversation, “And why would we do that? We need the dragons to defeat the White Walkers.”

Arya gave a long suffering sigh, finally stepping forward so that she was just within arm’s reach. “First of all, My Lord,” and this was said with all the sarcasm that Arya could muster, it was so familiar and Jon missed it so, he had to fight the sudden urge to cry and laugh all at the same time. “There are no White Walkers in Winterfell _and_ you’ve already given one dragon to the Night King. There’s no need to give him more.”

It took a whole second for Jon to understand what Arya meant. Give? Did she mean? An undead dragon. Jon felt sick. He had to wrap one arm around his torso, clutching at his stomach, so as not to double over and scream in frustration. He could envision The Night King astride Viserion, ice blue eyes looking down upon them, breathing ice that could still burn.

“How did you…I don’t…understand…” Tyrion looked to Jon and back to Dany who had one hand over her heart. Jon could almost feel the sudden sorrow and anger consuming Dany. Her face had crumpled into an agonized grimace at the thought of her dead dragon – her child, being turned into a monster that can and will destroy her, if not stopped.

“Gendry and Tormund reported it. They barely survived when the wall at Eastwatch came crashing down. Have your dragons fly over Skagos or Bay of Seals but not over Winterfell.”   

Dany still could not speak. This was a horrible blow to her. It was like losing Viserion all over again but more than anything, whatever advantage they might have had with the Army of the Dead had just significantly decreased.

“We all know that you cannot guarantee that when your dragons go hungry, they will not feed upon what little livestock we have left. Not just livestock. Winter is here. The dead are coming. So you can talk amongst yourselves and decide whether our request makes sense or you would rather arrive with dragons, but we can assure you, no Northerner would be thankful or impressed.”

Tyrion looking quite defeated by the two girls, helplessly turned to Dany, he gave her a pleading look, which she immediately dismissed, “I would like to have a council with my Hand and my advisors.”

Arya and Lyanna gave them a long hard look, a look only a Northerner can give, conveying their absolute disbelief that a council needed to be held over something as simple as this. The North dealt with practical problems quick and sure, it comes with trying to survive the harsh land which they live upon. 

“We’ll leave you to it then.” Lyanna said, shrugging her shoulder. “But we expect an answer soon. If you’re going to Winterfell, the more you delay, the harder it will be to pass through snow and biting cold.” She turned to look at Davos and gave him a warm smile, “Ser Davos, welcome back. Would you mind showing us the dragonglass that we need to transport to Winterfell? We’d like to take everything into account before we leave.”

Davos beamed at Lyanna, “Of course, My Lady. Truly, I would be more than happy.” He gave Jon an apologetic look, bowing courteously, “My Lord, will it be alright?”

Jon did not think he would ever be jealous of Davos going out into the cold winter afternoon to count dragonglass, hands freezing, breath billowing and misting in the air, but there was nothing that sounded more enjoyable than staying in a tent discussing where Dany’s dragons ought to stay. Especially when the answer was obvious enough and that they were merely delaying in making their decision just to make it seem like they have a choice. 

Jon nodded, not trusting himself to speak. He hopelessly watched as Davos, Lyanna and Arya left the tent, the howling wind briefly entering, before they closed the flap. Whatever warmth was inside the tent had disappeared, replaced by the chilling cold that would settle deep into muscles and bones.

Jon had bent the knee, had lost the North and his family, all for a desperately played gamble that was slowly turning out to be mistake. 


	8. a frenzied dance that had no rhythm

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It took her a few heartbeats to calm herself. She let out a small playful grin. “I thought she’d be taller, your Dragon Queen.” She announced into the dark, casually leaning over a tree.

So last year, I had this crazy Idea of how I wanted Season 8 to go down and posted it on tumblr, which you can read [here](http://graceverse.tumblr.com/post/166102327143/what-if). 

* * *

 

**Arya**

 

She had never known winter. She knew coldness and ice and snow, a screaming wall of wind during the worst autumn storms, even hail, but not winter. She was taken aback at how frightfully severe this winter was. And it had only just begun.

Cold and darkness surrounded her; it was almost like a physical presence keeping her company, its misty breath, like feathery wraiths of white smoke, floated and froze in the air. The Stark words have now become the realm’s truth. It was no longer a dreadful warning gravely uttered by her father and she was made for this. This was the world she belonged to and she reveled in being surrounded by the words her family had always believed in.

Arya Stark kept still, like a lone wolf waiting for its prey. She could see disfigured shadows moving from inside the Queen’s pavilion. Tyrion’s loomed as he paced near a torch, hands clasped behind his back. She could not hear their discussion but it wasn’t long any way. She watched as the Targaryen Queen finally, slowly stood up, towering over her Hand, her body all rigid lines, a posture that spoke of the kind of anger that without any words, could clear a whole tent. It vaguely reminded her of Tywin Lannister and how she had never heard him shout in all the time she had served him as a cupbearer. He threatened, demanded and controlled those around him all in the same smooth, calm voice that felt like a sharpened edge of a knife pressing against your throat.

Tywin’s youngest son, a traitor to his own family, stepped out the tent, stomping his foot and rubbing his hand. He cursed the North, the bloody Starks, this fucking weather and the filthy watered down wine before angrily huffing away. He was followed by two Dothraki guards who looked like giants stalking a lost child. Each held a torch, lighting their path and as snow reflected the light back everything was briefly illuminated.

Tyrion Lannister’s face had changed from the last time she had seen it. Arya remembered being a child, excited and oh so eagerly awaiting the arrival of the infamous Lannister Imp. She had heard outrageous stories about a grotesque monster that the Lannisters tried to hide. Or kill, depending on who was telling the tale. She had been disappointed then, to find out that he was merely small. He had stumpy legs. That was it. There was nothing terribly shocking nor horrendous about his face. She even remembered that he’d been the least hostile Lannister; had even briefly talked to her, indulging her as she playfully patted his head. Now though, The Imp’s scarred face was impressive, finally matching what Arya had imagined all those years ago.

The scar that ran down from his face was not merely a disfigurement. It was such a personal wound, right between the eyes. Arya wondered how he had gotten that. From a feat of bravery? Or stupidity? Or both?

A slight movement on her left alerted her and she quickly changed her position, crouching and hiding beneath a tree. She held her breath, stilled her heart and let her eyes adjust to the darkness. The night was not just black; it was as though several layers of black, of differing shades, had been painted over each other. It made shadows more difficult to discern, but one was walking towards the forest just behind the pavilion, away from the main camp.

Arya let out a slow smile as she quietly followed. Nimble and sure footed, she padded through the snow, stopping abruptly when the shadow halted and turned around. Arya thought of herself as smoke, light as air and near invisible. The shadow moved again, its pace had quickened but Arya was faster. She could easily shift from wolf to deer, swift and silent. And she knew this place better, having already spent a good week here preparing for the arrival of the Dragon Queen. Effortlessly, she matched the shadow’s long strides, taking them deeper into the woods.

The shadow stopped. Slowly he pivoted, hand clutching the pommel of his sword. The stance was perfect, feet wide apart, ready to attack or to fend off an attack. An improvement from the last time she had seen him. He was still slender and lithe, unlike Robb who was solidly built and whose movements always had force and weight.  She’d watch them train countless of times and Arya knew their fighting styles were as different as sun and moon. Robb was powerful but deliberate and it slows – _slowed_ – him down. Jon was quick and but his attacks had no rhyme or reason. He was all about hitting his opponent and hitting them hard. That was the difference, Jon was almost always angry every time the boys trained in the yard.

Arya had not realized it before, but after learning how to really, truly fight, she’d come to understand why Jon was a better than Robb and Theon. He had something to prove. She knew this, understood it now. She had always felt the same way too.

“Who’s there? Show yourself!” The low voice echoed through the silence, his loud and uneven breathing filled the air surrounding them. He was Angry. _Livid_ more like. Who did he think she was? A spy? An enemy mocking him?

“I know you’re there!” He announced as he moved in fluid circles, straightened his back, bracing for a small violence. He knew he was being followed. The game is up. Well, almost.

The weak light from the moon shone through the barren trees, finally showing the disheveled face of her brother and Arya let out the breath she had not been aware that she was holding.

_Jon._

“I do not have time for this!” His voice was harsh and cold, something she had never heard coming from him. There was a dangerous darkness to it and Arya felt oddly relieved. She was not the only one that had been touched by the stain of violence. 

It took her a few heartbeats to calm herself. She let out a small playful grin. “I thought she’d be taller, your Dragon Queen.” She announced into the dark, casually leaning over a tree. She could not help but sound rightfully disappointed, yet again. She had imagined the Dragon Queen to be as tall as Sansa. Or more like Brienne, strong and imposing. A true Queen who controlled dragons and savage armies the likes of which the realm had never seen before. But she turned out to be a delicate little thing with silver and gold in her hair, not much taller than her. Daenery’s dainty face was beautiful, if you’re the kind who liked that sort of dreamy, soft look. She had eyes that glittered purple and blue, hardening into steel only when Arya and Lyanna had refused to bend their knees.

Daenerys Targaryen had the looks of her ancestors, but fire, only seemed to come from her dragons. Not from her at all.  

“Arya?” The voice cracks at the last syllable of her name, spoken as more of a question. Uncertain but hopeful.

She watched as Jon’s whole posture very nearly crumpled and the impressive warrior was suddenly gone, replaced by a tired boy, shoulders sagging with the weight of years and years of weariness and this, _this_ was Jon, the brother Arya had loved and known so many thousand years ago. And something twisted inside of her. She felt wretched and small and scared. And _young._ She had forgotten how to be young. It made her cringe and step back, hiding herself in the dark.

"Arya? Is that you?" There was a painful pureness in Jon’s voice. A kind of longing she had kept herself from ever feeling, or else she would’ve just sat down in front of The Twins’s gate, crying until someone had realized who she was and sliced off her head. She could’ve joined Father and Mother and Robb that night, she did not have to endure everything that she had gone through trying to get back home, to Winterfell.

If she had allowed herself to feel so much, she would have long given up and have gone on to pretend as Arry or “hey Boy, you Boy!” or to be forever nameless and faceless. She had refused to open herself up to the buoyancy of hope and wasteful wishes. Instead, she had sunk, not into despair – no, that was not her, but into the black pit of vengeance. It was not even justice that she wanted, but the blood and tears of her enemies. She had clung to her List, to the names of those she would inflict pain upon and she had sensed the same thing in Sansa. More subdued, yes, but it was there, in the silent way she refused to ever utter the Bolton’s name. She and Sansa had wiped out a whole House. They had done it on their own terms and they were truly sisters in that sense.

But Jon, it seemed, had held on to something less poisonous. She heard it in his voice, so filled with a sense of joyful wonder, without the bitterness that Arya had carried within her all those years of wandering, of feeling misplaced, no one looking for her, no one searching through the gutters of Flea Bottom, or the horrors at the House of Black and White. 

Arya had not cried in a long time. She had spent so much of her life trying to hold back tears, she had grown quite good at it but she was still familiar with the slow burning sensation at the back of her throat. It felt like she had swallowed a lump of red, glowing hot coal. She knew how to quell it, how to squash it until all that was left were the taste ashes inside her mouth but the way Jon had said her name – it punched through the stone wall that she had slowly and painstakingly built around herself.

She was not ready for this. She thought she was. She thought she could be nonchalant as she had been when she had first laid her eyes upon her long lost sister. But this was different. This was _Jon._

Sansa had told her so many things about Jon that it had somehow made all the years that they had spent apart slowly fall away, until it felt as though they have only been parted for a month and not years and years of thinking each other dead, lost and gone forever, never to be seen ever again. Sansa told her about the scar above Jon’s eyes and the beard he had finally managed to grow, or the way his voice had become deeper, no longer the pesky little squeak he used to hate. About Jon drinking a tankard, or two, of ale, every night, sitting by the hearth, complaining about bothersome Lords or unruly Wildlings and that when he was particularly tired, he’d end up sleeping on his chair, mouth slack open, snoring softly. Or perhaps, not really tired, but bored by Sansa quietly mending tunics by the fire. Sansa had told her that she was sorry that she didn’t have much to tell Jon, at least nothing good, all the tales she has to tell are of pain and suffering and she didn’t want Jon to know all about that. Sansa had even mentioned that she was finally glad that Arya had come back in Winterfell. At least now there was someone Jon could actually talk to and not just about trying to run a castle or break up impending fights between Knights who felt that they were not being given enough attention and credit.

“You’d at least have happy memories to talk about.” Sansa had said, “Something to make him smile. Jon barely smiles,” her sister had added sadly. “He’d grimace and clench his teeth and would forlornly look somewhere far off into the distant. Moody as always, but fortunately, less sulky as I used to remember. But he is still kind. Like he had always been.”

And all of that, Arya thought, had prepared her for when she would finally saw Jon again. It made her feel as though she knew **_that_** Jon. That grown up Jon who had been a Ranger, a Lord Commander, a soldier, a King. But he had been a brother first. _Her_ brother. And it was this Jon who had called out her name in the darkness of winter; his voice not in any way strong or deep, but needful, disbelieving and believing all the same time. It was what broke all of her defenses.

She sprinted towards him, no longer silent as a wolf hunting its prey, but a lost puppy that had finally found its family. Her feet left deep impression on the snow, the sound of squishing wet leaves filled her ears, followed by the audible gulps she was making as she helplessly fought and fought off tears and in her blurred vision, Arya saw Jon coming towards to her, his face a broken mess of emotions that she couldn’t name, but it didn’t matter.

It didn’t matter, because Jon was alive and here, catching her as she lunged towards him with enough force to send him reeling backwards. How easily he had lifted her then, the last time they saw each other. She could feel him trembling as he cried and laughed. Sorrow and joy, like a double edged sword opening her up and she could feel her own hot tears, could hear her own gurgling, coughing laughter.

They were both violently shaking, rocking back and forth, taking as much comfort as they can, swaying dizzyingly, dreadfully unbalanced and clumsy. They held on to each other, squeezing, squeezing until Arya thought she wouldn’t be able to breath, but even that was alright. She didn’t care.

Jon was home.

The pack is complete. Finally. The time of wolves have come. 

 

* * *

 

A fortnight ago, it had just been the three of them, seated around the hearth of what used to be father’s solar. It was now theirs. They had claimed it as their own and here they spend nights together, seeking what little comfort they can have as they tried to prepare for war, to survive the winter, to be Starks once again after spending half of their lives hiding who they were, pretending to be someone else, gathering false names to cover up their true colors. There were still secrets between them, true. After all, there were things that they would never ever be able to put into words much less share with anyone else but despite all that, Arya had never felt closer to her siblings than she had all those years ago, before they ever had the bright idea of leaving Winterfell.

Nothing ever good had come out of that and she did not understand why Jon thought leaving for Dragonstone would be any different. A small part of her blamed Sansa and her failure to keep Jon home in Winterfell, but she supposed they were all stubborn to a fault, something they’d all gotten from their mothers.

Lyanna Stark’s stubbornness, in particular, had such far reaching consequences which they all have to deal with now. Arya was certain her aunt defied everyone in Winterfell when she had decided to marry Rhaegar Targaryen. And look where that had brought her: a fourteen year old girl who had believed herself in love with a married man, the son of a Mad King. She had forsaken her family, died alone in a tower, leaving her son in a world that was already condemning the last remaining Targaryens.

Arya could almost understand their father hiding the truth from everyone. He would have had to fight Robert Baratheon to death had the then newly crowned King discovered the truth of Jon’s parentage. Better have a bastard son, than a whole new war to fight. She could not imagine her father killing a man who he loved as a brother. But if he had been left with no choice, he would not have forsaken his sister's son.

Poor Jon! To have never known and to finally know _now_ , with his Aunt back in the realm, claiming the Iron Throne. The never ending list of complications of Jon’s true parentage had kept her sister worried and busy trying to figure out what their next steps should be. It would not have been such a pressing matter if only he wasn’t bringing his aunt and her dragons into Winterfell, as the North’s new Queen. And then there was the obvious shortage of food and resources. Everything was already being rationed and with the arrival of two more armies, you can forget waging war with the White Walkers, everyone will die of hunger in the North. 

Sansa was a problem solver, Arya knew this, and her sister was still trying to figure out the best way to approach the subject of Jon bending the knee. They had talked it through all night and they couldn’t decide whether it would be better if Jon told the North or if they tell them in advance, before the impending arrival of the Dragon Queen.

Arya thought it more prudent to tell the Northerners _now_ at least they would have time to prepare. But Sansa feared that she would not have the right words for their people and why should she have to be the bearer of this bad news? And this was Jon they were talking about. Surely he would not give up their freedom to someone unworthy. If Jon had believed in Daenerys Targaryen, then he shouldn't have any problem convincing his own people. 

Arya had huffed at this. “She has dragons. What choice did you think Jon had? Especially if she had threatened to burn the whole North.”

Sansa shook her head. “Then what good is the North to her if she turns it into nothing but ashes?”

Arya met her sister’s eyes. “She burned hundreds of food carts not because they were a threat to her, but because she can. Or rather, her dragons can. All of Highgarden's grain, enough to feed half of the realm, turned into ashes. She is fucking pyromaniac."

Sansa's face had visibly paled, her blue eyes standing out in stark contrast. “I suppose that's exactly what our people would like to hear. We are under the Targaryen rule once more, because it is either that or we burn."

"You don't have to tell them _that_. They'd come to that conclusion easily enough without your help."

"Then what must _I_ tell them?"

Arya shrugged. "You'll find the words." It was not very helpful, she knew but this was why she hated the political side of managing a castle. All those egos you need to be wary of. She shuddered at the thought of having to deal with them on a daily basis. She would have ended up murdering one or two of them. 

Sansa let out a deeply tired sigh. "I just wish I know how to prepare for her. Jon didn't say much in his letter. I don't know what this Queen is like."

A sudden inspiration hits Arya her. "Let me meet her first.”

Now Sansa looked like a ghost. All the color drained from her, even her eyes had gone almost blank and dead. "No. No. That's too dangerous." Sansa was fervently working her fingers, twisting and curling them together, hands clasping and unclasping. "I - I should be the one who meets her. It is not your responsibility-"

"You're the Lady of Winterfell. This is your castle. Your home. You don't need to go out of your way to welcome her. We're already handing over the North to her, no need to bend over backwards for her. Let her come to you. Father didn't welcome King Robert at Moat Cailin. King Robert hauled his fat ass to Winterfell and that's exactly what this Targaryen Queen is going to do."

"She's right." Bran interrupted.

Arya raised her eyebrows. "I don't think I heard you right. Can you repeat that, please?"

Bran merely stared at her, completely expressionless. 

"Will you meet her as... as yourself?" Sansa's pale face was scrunched up with worried lines and Arya thought she'd never seen Sansa look so old and worn out. 

"I will. As Arya Stark." She was not going to hide who she was in the face of this Queen demanding their fealty. 

Something in her voice seemed to have affected Sansa. She looked suddenly determined. She straightened her back, walking towards the window where she paused for a good long while, deep in thought. "Then you must let her know of our terms. Her dragons for one. They must not be allowed to fly close to Winterfell. Or any Northern town for that matter."

Arya stared at her sister. "That's wise." She said slowly, trying her best not to sound too impressed. 

"We need to think of other precautions that we must take before we allow her to Winterfell," Sansa murmured, more to herself. Already Arya could sense Sansa starting to build up her plan. Sansa bit her lips, the frown lines around her mouth deepening. She looked like mother when she does that and Arya wondered if Sansa was aware of it. Her sister turned towards her, eyes hardening as she took bent to look into her face. "But you _must_ be careful with her, Arya. Remember, we need Jon safe. He must not know yet. No one must know yet. Make him suffer for bending the knee, go ahead. I won’t stop you. But, please, for the love of the old gods, don’t ever use the ‘I’ll cut your face and wear it’ shit, alright?”

Arya raised her eyebrows, at a loss for words. She’d never heard Sansa swear before.

A whole second passed before Bran broke the silence. “Yes, don't. He’ll cry.” 

Arya and Sansa both looked at Bran, who surprisingly gave them a ghost of his familiar boyish grin, and despite everything that was happening, Arya could see Sansa’s lips twitching up and in an instant, Arya’s laughter bubbled up inside her chest, escaping wild and fee, until it was the only sound inside the room. Sansa seemed unable to stop herself and joined in, her laughter sounding nothing like her usual prim and proper self.

Something inside of her was easing and it felt good, like coming home after a long day of running around the moors surrounding Winterfell and finding her lady mother by the castle door, waiting for her, a smile on her face as she announced that dinner will be served soon. Arya loved those days. Bran had made a jest. She would be seeing Jon soon. Things aren’t as dire as it seemed. 

 

 

* * *

 

A week before Arya was to meet Daenerys, Sansa came to her with a solution to her problem. It was bold and unexpected, but it made sense and it made Arya see her sister in a surprisingly new light. She was born for this, her sister, Arya had to admit that. But she was still not sure whether this was something that she needed to be worried about.

Time can only tell, but she has to be ready for anything, she must steel herself to do things that her heart might not be prepared to do. Like what her father had done. That, she was certain of, at least.

 

* * *

 

There was nothing simple in Sansa’s plan.

After Winterfell had welcomed the injured from Eastwatch, Sansa shall gather all the heads of the family from the North first (The Vale could wait once she had the North on her side). She will present them the survivors of Eastwatch, who will their stories about the Night King, the army of dead numbering in the thousands, the Death March that had already begun and was heading towards The North. Their homes, their families.

Sansa will let the Wildlings and the surviving Brotherhood Without Banners describe the explosion of ice wall that had stood for thousands of years. Blocks and boulders of it barreling down, smashing and hurtling from the skies, some as big as castle turrets; Eastwatch falling and disintegrating into useless rubble, and finally, of the undead dragon breathing burning blue ice.

And then she would ask the good Lords and Ladies what they ought to do with the wights and the undead dragon and the Night King riding upon its back. How could they defeat such a creature? How could they protect themselves? 

Of course, when no one can answer, Sansa would mention Daenerys Targaryen and her two dragons--

“That’d be problematic.” Arya commented dryly. “The undead dragon was one of hers. If she had not flown them beyond the wall, we would not have to deal with a dragon wight in the first place.”

Sansa stared at her, blue eyes blazing. “Yes, I _know_ that Arya. But if she had not flown Beyond the Wall, Jon and Tormund and all those who went with him to the wight hunt would have also died.”

Brienne had told them all she knew about the wight hunt and for the first time in years she and Sansa were both in agreement at how badly that plan had ended.

“What a bunch of idiots. What was Jon thinking?!” Arya repeated for what felt like a hundred time. She shook her head and rolled her eyes. She could not believe that she was criticizing her most favorite brother. She loved him, she missed him terribly, but she could not help but be annoyed at Jon’s daring stupidity. Here she was, waiting for his safe return in Winterfell so that they could all be finally together and he goes off into a suicide mission. 

“He only did it to get Cersei Lannister to--” at her pointed look, Sansa stopped, sighing loudly. “Alright, so it was reckless, ill-planned, and ill-thought of. But Jon could not have known that Cersei would not—stop, alright. Don’t look at me like that. I’m trying here, Arya.”

“Well, try harder.” She and Sansa both huffed in annoyance at the same time, glaring at each other. Arya was never one to back out of a staring contest and feeling a little triumphant, she watched as Sansa let out a tired sigh before sitting down, her shoulders slumping as she moved her hands over to her face.

Arya momentarily felt guilty. She had grown old enough to understand that the frustration they were feeling was not towards each other, but at the impossible situation that they were all trying to make sense of. It was not as if they were surrounded by trusted advisers and military men. Jon had brought his Hand in Dragonstone and the war had taken Luwin, Winterfell’s Maester as well as all the other experienced and trustworthy Lords who could have given them counsel.

It was just the two of them. Lady Sansa and Lady Arya. And they had been trained to dance and sew and sing and all the stupid shit women of their status were forced to learn. What a fucking waste those lessons had turned out to be.

“Tell the Lords. It won’t matter to them. We do not have enough time. We need to act now.” Bran instructed, keeping his eyes on the fire.

Well, _three_. Sometimes.

Arya could see Sansa hesitating. She watched as her sister opened her mouth to say something, but was cut off when the door opened. Tarly entered the room, bowing less clumsily this time, before letting them know that the heads of each Northern Houses have been assembled at Sansa’s solar, awaiting her.

“Thank you, Sam.” Sansa stood up, smoothing down invisible wrinkles in her gown. Arya could see her sister’s fingers lightly shaking. Sansa clasped her hands together, knuckles turning white. She took a deep breath before finally facing Sam. “And the injured men from Eastwatch?” She asked, worry creeping into her voice. She shook it off with a shrug, closed her eyes and repeated the same question, this time, sounding calm and queenly.

Sam pretended not to notice and Arya liked him even more for that. He was proving to be their only trustworthy ally. Someone they could truly count on. “The injured have been taken into the Great Hall, My Lady. Maester Wolkan is overseeing their treatment.  Those whose injuries are not life threatening went straight to the kitchen. It’s just pottage, My Lady.” Sam said at the look of concern on Sansa’s face. “I mean, it’s all that they asked for and some watered down beer, but they have also brought their stock of salt meat for the winter, so our provisions are not used. The Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch sends his thanks and have also sent their own brewed ale, which is not much of a ‘thanks’, I know, but it’s all they could give right now.”

Sansa visibly winced as though tasting something quite foul but her face had relaxed, had become softer at something she seemed to remember. “It’s fine, Sam. Will you see to them and when everyone has rested, come get Arya.” Sansa turned to her, “You’ll need to choose the --- well, the most presentable survivors. Someone the Lords and the Ladies would listen to.”

“Someone coherent,” Arya amended, “but not at all threatening. Not someone the Lords would think could best them in a battle.”

“Yes.” There was a look of something almost akin to pride that shone in Sansa’s face. “Tell them that they just need to tell us exactly what happened, that is all. You must assure them that we will listen and that we will do everything we can to keep them safe, here in Winterfell.”

“Fine.” Arya thought this was something she had wasn’t really good at. She was aware that she must be careful with her words; they did not have enough time to brief the men from Eastwatch. Unbeknownst to them, they are to play a crucial role in getting the Northern Lords and their only ally, the Vale, to accept Daenery’s as their new Queen.

The Northerners are tired of war, true, but they also have had enough of people from the South trying to control their lives. And now here comes someone from across the Narrow Sea. They’ve had their prides battered and bruised; they’ve tasted nothing but continued defeat and humiliation over the loss of their Warden, then their King and their once mighty army. It wouldn’t do them any good if the North decides to start a last desperate rebellion as soon as they find out that Jon had handed over their freedom to the Targaryen Queen without so much as discussing it with them.

If they played their cards right, they might just be able to get at least everyone’s grudging cooperation.

“I’ll start talking to the Lords and Ladies.” Sansa announced, nodding at Sam who bowed his head.

“Best not to keep them waiting, My Lady.”

"Right" Sansa muttered as she walked briskly across the room before suddenly pausing by the door. Slowly, thoughtfully Sansa turned her chin down, chewing on her lower lips. Arya watched as her sister turned towards her with worried, fearful eyes “Do you think this will work?”

Arya blinked up at her sister, who was anxiously and expectantly looking at her, waiting for her answer and Arya could not help but be secretly pleased at how much Sansa had been sharing things with her. She’d even shown her Jon’s crumpled, crumbling letter stating his decision to bend the knee. Sansa had asked her to do important things such as strengthening Winterfell’s defenses, training young Northerners how to fight. Sansa had not commanded her into a gown, to sew tunics or to spend time with the remaining Lords of the North, trying to strengthen allegiances by something stupid as courting or marriage. She would not have done it, but Sansa hadn’t asked her to and that meant the world to Arya. She was needed and depended on, according to her skills and not just as her status of the sister of the Lady of Winterfell.

In truth, Arya who still had her own list, did not especially believe in too much planning. They worked differently. Sansa had a more subtle, circuitous approach when trying to deal with problems while Arya wanted to be as direct as possible. No diplomatic flowery words, with only a mild regard for possible long term effects of her actions. She stabbed their enemies with the pointy end. That was her solution. Quick. Efficient. Lasting. 

But Sansa has her whole support. “We’ll make it work.” Arya assured her, keeping her voice firm and sure. Sansa gave her a small grateful smile before disappearing into the hallways, Samwell Tarly following closely behind her.

Arya took a deep breath. Yes, it _could_ work. And if not, well, there _are_ other options that Sansa might be forced to acknowledge. She clasped her hands behind her as she walked towards Bran, who was sitting as still as a statue, staring wordlessly at the fire. He did not have his usual empty, blank look. His eyes were alert but filled with a strange blue-yellow shade.

She moved and sat down next to him, wondering if he was silently listening or pretending to listen. She couldn’t really tell. He seemed to occasionally nod his agreement regarding Sansa’s plan of action. Or he could be nodding off to sleep. Her younger brother was still a mystery she has yet to solve. Sometimes she could feel an overwhelming, unbearable sense of futility as she tried to coax out the Bran that she knew, the little brother that annoyed her and loved her as he only could. Could Bran be truly gone? Replaced by this man-boy-three-eyed-raven person who could see visions but be unable to explain them?

Well, at least _that_ annoyed Arya.

“Are you certain about those intolerable Lords and lordlings?” Arya asked. She flittingly thought of poking Bran on the shoulder, just to get a reaction out of him, hear him make one of his jokes again, but thought better of it. Perhaps what she needed was a just a little bit of patience. 

Bran did not answer right away and just when Arya’s patience started wearing thin, he finally faced her, dark shadows playing upon his young-old face. “And Ladies too. You are forgetting Lady Mormont and Lady Kastark.”

Arya rolled her eyes. Bran and his answers that were truly not answers at all. “I did not forget then. They’re just _not_ intolerable.”

Bran shrugged his shoulders and as always, turned his attention back to the hearth. Arya let out a sound of frustration that she didn’t bother hiding. She almost jumped out of her seat, certain that she had bestowed enough patience for the day when Bran suddenly spoke out loud. “What do you see, Arya?”

_Arya._

It had been such a long time since she had last heard Bran speak her name. It startled her for a whole second. “What do you mean? See where?”

Bran nodded towards the heart.

“In there?”

“Yes.” Bran sounded infinitely so much more patient than Arya could manage and she was torn between being annoyed or in awed by it. “Look into the fire, Arya. What do you see?”

Again, with her name. Bran had always stared at her as though she was a stranger he had just met and in a span of a minute, he had called her in that almost old-familiar way he used to, back when he was just a little boy that clung to her skirts, begging her to let him come on her adventures: _“I’ll be your squire. Oh please, please Arya. I won’t tell mother we went into the forest. I promise. I only forgot last time because she asked me in a tricky way!”_

Arya could feel the fine hairs on her nape standing on the end. She turned her attention towards the hearth, the leaping flames, flickering and licking in a frenzied dance that had no rhythm. She stared hard until her eyes felt watery and hot. “Fire. Logs being burned. Yellow blue flames. Fire.”

From the corner of her eyes, Bran nodded, the movement seemed old and ancient. It reminded her of Nan. “What shapes do you see?”

Gods. Arya felt a cold frightened shiver slithering across her spine. “What? What do you mean _shapes_? It’s just fire, Bran There are no shapes.”

Bran was breathing slowly, an even regular breathing, as though he was sleeping, but his eyes were wide open and when he turned to stare at her, Arya almost took a step back. His eyes were dark, it was almost black. Like the starless black skies that meant that a storm was brewing right above your head. Arya fought off the urge to grab Bran by the shoulder and shake him. “Stop it Bran.” She warned him in a small voice that she almost did not recognize as her own.

“You don’t see anything? Look closer, Arya.”

Arya finally jumped out of her seat and it felt like she had leaped out of her own skin that was starting to feel prickly hot and but also freezing cold at the same time. She glared at her brother – no, no, not Bran – but this thing that was taking control, stealing Bran away. “I am not going to shove my face into a hearth.”  

“Nothing then?” Bran was a picture of utter calmness, devoid of any emotion, barely even flinching at Arya’s raised voice.

She gritted her teeth, fist clenched tightly against her sides. She suddenly felt like crying, which was so stupid. Arya closed her eyes and managed to compose herself. She bravely took a step closer, her face mere inches from Bran's. “You know, Sansa never did say anything about not trying to knock you unconscious.”

Bran blinked at her, suddenly looking almost like himself. “Just checking.”

Arya swallowed hard. Her heart was pounding inside her chest, an incessant sound that filled her head and she could not help but ask the question she knew she should never ask, but she could not help herself. She needed to know. “What do _you_ see?”

Bran’s blue eyes glittered with the light from the hearth. He gave her the saddest smile she had ever seen, before softly, he answered: “Winterfell.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A lot has happened since my tumblr post and there are going to be some changes in this fic, but not really plot (plot? what plot?!) wise. The one big change is that Jon and Sansa would have to meet each other in Winterfell, because I need that welcome hug to happen in my fic. So there. But yes, everything else would still follow that What If post. I hope. Thank you for reading and please feel free to leave your comments and questions and rants and raves or to just drop a quick "Hi!" I would appreciate it so much.


	9. nowhere to go but forward

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Your sister Arya told true. She truly is beautiful, your Lady of Winterfell.”
> 
> Daenerys’s smile sliced like a knife.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok, uploading this really quickly. I hope there aren't too many errors. Thank you in advance for still being here :)

So last year, I had this crazy Idea of how I wanted Season 8 to go down and posted it on tumblr, which you can read [here](http://graceverse.tumblr.com/post/166102327143/what-if). 

* * *

 

 

**Missandei**

 

Westeros was a strange land. Nothing like the home she had left behind, a home she could barely remember. Not Astapoor, but the land of her birth. She had been sold into slavery at such a young age, she had not been able to put down roots, to memorize the feel of the land, the sound of its wind. She knew of other places, of course. Cities from the beyond the Narrow Sea. There was the ever present heat, the scent of thousand different spices, pungent and sweet; the sound of a hundred tongues speaking all at once, a busy trading city with dusty roads, long shadows and the golden sun, reflected in pyramids and spiralling towers.

Westeros was bleak and wet and nightmarish. Dragonstone with its imposing rock formations the shape of open mouthed dragons, teeth bared; gritty dark sand, white bones and dragonglass scattered everywhere, the sound of the ocean murmuring spells in the early morning and roaring in the night. And the storms; the crashing thunder and the white lightning that slashes the night with jagged lines. The first time she had seen it, she had thought the sky had been ripped apart into two.

Missandei could not understand what her good Queen would ever want from a land that was damp and dank, no majestic golden towers, no lazy winding rivers, no verdant gardens filled with exotic flowers.

“Oh, but Westeros is more than just Dragonstone,” Daenerys had told her on one of those rare nights when they were not visited by a raging storm.

Daenerys had sat in front of the fire, legs folded beneath her, her face washed by the golden light from the hearth as she told Missandei that the Seven Kingdoms of Westeros were like seven different magical worlds.

Highgarden with its walls of flowers, their blue-grey lakes, rivers and fields, rich farmlands, gently rolling hills, fragrant meadows; The Vale a fertile valley that boasted of green towering mountains and nestled between its peak, was the most beautiful castle in all of Westeros, the Eyrie. Made from the purest, smoothest white marble, it changes its color as the sun sets, reflecting the afternoon glow. In Dorne, the only kingdom that had not bent their knees – but soon, they will – “in Dorne, perhaps you will remember your home,” she had told her, her voice filled with almost childish delight. “I remember all of my brother’s tale.” Her queen spoke little of the older brother that had sold her to the Dothrakis. Viserys. That was his name. Her queen must have loved him, since she named one of her dragons after him. But that love was also tainted with anger that simmered in the surface, never fully explained nor explored. Perhaps that was for the best. Daenerys had known loss and betrayal more than anyone Missandei had ever known and she felt quite protective of her. She did not want to ask and pry, prod at old wounds that were still probably healing.

“And now, they are no longer just tales. Now they will all be mine. It is my birth right. My destiny. Do you understand?”

Missandei had nodded. She understood perfectly well, how it was to be without any control of her own fate, how it was to be sold, stolen, used, discarded. Her Queen had suffered just as she had and now finally, justice. The righting of wrong.

She remembered how Daenerys had looked that night. So full of excitement and joy, her whole face lit up, her smile gentle and hopeful, like a little girl reminiscing about precious childhood dreams. Missandei could not help but smile with her and imagine those wonderful worlds the Daenerys would soon rule. She had even felt the same eagerness to conquer Westeros, to claim these lands that Daenerys had loved and had been taken away from her. These lands that shall now belong to her Queen, that they would visit one by one; they would savor all the breath-taking sceneries and richness Missandei had never seen or even heard of before.

But nothing had prepared her for their journey north. This Northern Kingdom was magical and fearsome; like a horrible nightmare and a pleasant dream, all at the same time.

She had never in her life thought it was possible to feel so cold, this shivery feeling deep into her bones. Her fingers quivering as she tried to catch the falling snow, the puff of white that looked dreamy-soft, like the cottons on a field, or clouds on blue sky. They become wet mush as they flutter down on earth and Missandei had watched in quiet horror as her feet disappeared into white watery-land as she walked around their campsite. Overnight, it becomes hard and compact, slippery and dangerous. They freeze and become crystal shards, hanging from tree branches, sharp like broken mirrors that can cut and wound like daggers and knives.

Fires had to be kept burning all night. Or else they would freeze to death. Already a few Dothrakis had gotten sick. They coughed and sniffled like little children, their eyes turning watery and red. They had become sluggish and it took them a good week to finally become accustomed to this weather that seemed to have a mind of its own. It was never consistently cold or freezing. There were days when the sun rose high on the sky and the cold was not so bad and everything around them glittered as though fine jewels had been scattered around them. But then the following day, a blizzard would torment them and keep them inside their tents, wincing every time the wind whipped against the canvass that felt flimsy and ridiculous. Like it would fly away at any moment. She had never seen Greyworm look nervous, not until that day, with frozen snow on his eyelashes and his lips a shade of blue, the color of day old bruises.

The North was a place filled with contradiction. Much like this Jon Snow, who was now riding beside Queen Daenerys, his dark eyes intently staring off into the horizon; his whole body all rigid lines, tense and alert although nothing of interest had ever happened on the first few days of their journey towards Winterfell. Every end of the day, Lord Tyrion would cheerfully inform them that they were nearing Winterfell and always, Missandei would strain her eyes searching the horizon for a castle, hulking towers, dark ramparts or anything that would break the monotony of ice and snow, the flat expanse of whiteness, of blankness that was both, inexplicably, unnerving and vitalizing. The crisp winter air, the quietness around them. There were too few animals. She had spotted something that looked both like a dog and a cat, with its long snout and ear that stood up like two pyramids.

“A fox.” Lord Tyrion had answered when she had muttered about the strange creature. “Sly and quick, hard to hunt, unless you have a hound that could outrun it. Or a pack of hounds that could corner it.”

She asked why the animals in the North were so tiny and Lord Tyrion had let out a delighted laugh.

“You keep an eye for Lord Snow’s direwolf, white as snow and as big as your horse, my Lady.” He turned towards Jon Snow. “I remember when he was but a pup. He was already huge. And scary.”

But Jon Snow did not said anything. Lord Tyrion wet his lips and gave Missandei a smile that looked as though he had swallowed something bitter.

“In Bear Island, where I come from, the bears could grow up to eight feet tall.” Ser Jorah Mormont added as he trotted over them, his horse snorting in agreement. “Giant feral animals that could kill a man with a swipe of its paw. Take off its head easily. Rip you into shreds. Magnificent creatures.”

It was the first time Ser Jorah had spoken about his old home that both Queen Daenerys and Jon Snow turned their heads to look at him.

“Where are they then? These direwolves and bears?” Missandei asked, looking around.

“Slumbering.” Jon Snow answered, frost in his voice. He kept his eyes trained somewhere far, as though he could see the animals sleeping soundly, hiding from them. “Winter is here.”  

There was something in the words that seemed to make Jon Snow sound more solemn than usual, and Missandei felt herself shiver. It sounded like a warning to her, something that they should all heed and turn back, back to Dragonstone, even further back across the Narrow Sea, turn back now, before it’s too late, but none of her companions seemed to notice or care.

“Aye, they’re all in caves or burrowed underneath the soil. Keeping warm. Waiting out the winter. They eat double their weight, keep them alive as they sleep.” Ser Jorah explained, nodding his head.

“That is fascinating.” Daenerys remarked, sounding thrilled at learning something new. “So they sleep all day? They never get hungry? Never need to wake up, at all?”

“Sometimes they do, my Queen.” Ser Jorah replied. “But only briefly. They reserve their energy. There is nowhere to go, nothing to hunt for during winter.”

Missandei could not imagine an animal sleeping so soundly, belly filled with food, waiting for the season to change. What if it stays winter forever?

“Now, now, my Lady, let’s not even think of that. Winter will end. Eventually.” Lord Tyrion pleasantly said, clucking his tongue and urging his horse to move forward. Jon Snow and Ser Jorah shared a look. Grim faced, they both remained quiet letting Tyrion pass them by.

“What? What is it?” Queen Daenerys asked, having also seen the wordless exchange between the two Northerners.

“It’s nothing, your Grace.” Ser Jorah said when it was obvious that Jon Snow was not going to say anything. “We Northerners always think of the worst, a winter that never ends. That is what the Northerners truly fear.”

“Nonsense.” Lord Tyrion interrupted. He glared at Ser Jorah and offered a comforting smile. “Winter _will_ end. It always _has_. Shall we? My Queen? It will be dark soon, best to find the campsite that the Lady Arya had prepared for us.” A slow smile graced Lord Tyrion’s mangled face, “I often wonder how difficult this journey would have been had it not been for the Lady Arya’s help. Leaving us provision and such.”

“Yes,” the Queen gave Jon Snow a fond smile, her eyes shining with affection. “We are truly grateful, my Lord Snow.”

Jon Snow stiffened, his face suddenly turning pale and then slightly coloring as he cleared his throat. “It is nothing my Queen. We all help each other out.”

Daenerys looked pleased as she stretched out her hand, her cheeks flushing as Lord Snow gallantly grasped it and together they moved their horses to stand side by side, allowing them to ride beside each other, their pace perfectly even, like a King and Queen, riding off into the sunset.

* * *

 

The closer they are to Winterfell, the quieter Jon Snow became. A whole day could pass and he would only utter two or three words, most of them addressed to Daenerys, but all of them concernedly curt questions: “Tired?” “Hungry?” “Thirsty?” He did not point out and name the winter birds that they would occasionally hear singing above them, nor did he had any stories to tell about his childhood in Winterfell or his time during the Night Watch.

Not that Missandei had ever heard Daenerys ask him about any of those things. How could her Queen not be curious? Missandei, wondered. She and Greyworm had spent many nights talking and yet she still had a hundred questions in mind, not a day would pass when she would find something she want to ask about Greyworm’s life, or his opinion on things. He still did not say much, but his silence was nothing compared to Jon Snow’s.

Missandei had heard Daenerys’s talk of the Dothraki, of Astapoor and Mereen, of Volantis, of the Targaryens and how they had come to rule Westeros. Missandei could hear Jon Snow grunt in response, could see him tilt his head in interest but if actual words were ever spoken, she was too far from them to hear it.

It was Lord Tyrion who offered anecdotes and asked questions (‘was there not a river here? I seem to recall stopping by to fish the last time we travelled North, around this area at least. Or perhaps all this snow is making me lose my sense of direction?) But all of his queries were left unanswered. Jon Snow had also stopped talking to the Queen’s Hand and Missandei could almost taste the tension between them, it left a sweetened-rotting taste at the tip of her tongue and had the vague scent of a soured fruit. 

Even during the evening counsel, Jon Snow spoke so little, sometimes she would find herself startled when The Queen would suddenly speak his name and there he was, a man amongst the shadow, always with a carefully worded answer. Wary and distrusting. Missandei had to bring this up to Daenerys who was quick to point out that she had noticed, yes, but it was quite normal reaction for a man who had been stripped off his power by a woman.

“We are no longer equal, you see. And men are generally like that when women are in power.” She had told Missandei, confidently adding that she was not worried. Truly. She gave Missandei a gentle, contented smile. A smile that hid secrets but told everything in details, even without words.

They still slept in one tent, except for that first night, when he had gone over to the Northerners’ camp, to his sister that looked so much like him: dark hair, dark eyes, and a scowl just hovering above the corner of her mouth.

Daenerys’s smile blossomed and becomes sweeter as she confessed in a low voice that they still share one bed. “And anyway”, her Queen added with an unconcerned shrug, “Jon Snow is not a particularly proud man. Just overly concerned and protective of his family and people.”

Which was understandable and which even Missandei had to admit, was an impressive trait.  This fiercely loyal, almost stubborn attitude.

“It is quite refreshing. And most endearing, to be honest.” There was a sadness in her queen’s voice and Missandei could only guess that she was remembering how her queen had grown up with a brother that had sold her off to the highest bidder – the fiercest army – that he thought he could command and use to take back the Seven Kingdom.

“But,” Daenerys insisted, “I am going to show him that I meant what I had said. I _will_ protect the North. I will fight for them. I will let my armies and my children wage war against the Night King and his Army of the Dead. I will exact my revenge for my poor Viserion. Once we are victorious, Jon would see how we could rule Westeros together.”

Missandei watched admiringly as Daenerys straightened her back, jutted out her chin, her eyes hardening, “And the North shall love me too. Those little Northern girls, most especially. They shall look up at me and perhaps even call me _Mother_.”

Just as the little girls that had clamoured for her after she had saved them from slavery, Missandei thought, wordlessly agreeing. She could not help but notice how the Queen’s voice had turned into ice at the mention of Northern girls, remembering no doubt, the unpleasant girl who had a permanent sneer in her face.

Lady Lyanna Mormont. That was her name. She had been rude and unforgivingly harsh. A young relative of Sir Jorah Mormont, Missandei later found out. They look nothing alike. Especially not when Sir Jorah had forever looked at his Queen with nothing but gentleness and love and there was only disdain in the little girl’s face.

“Of course, My Queen.” Missandei had lovingly answered, for how could she ever doubt Daenerys. It was true, her Queen knew about the ways of men far better than Missandei and she had always been wise when it came to dealing with them. As for the North loving her, it would only take a matter of time for them to bend their knees and swear their life and fealty to the true heir of the Iron Throne. Yes, the Northerners were cold and reserved, but not because they were trained to be, unlike the Unsullied, but because it was their land.

Remote. Arctic. Distant.

It was how they lived.

She could almost understand why Jon Snow’s men were all flinty and taciturn; they were not unkind and yet, they were also not _kindly_. After having travelled halfway around the world to discover winter and snow and ice, Missandei was certain that the Northerners could not have known warmth, _real_ warmth, not when they had lived all their lives surrounded by all this coldness. And if there was anyone who could melt their hearts and their frostiness, it was her Queen. 

But Missandei could not help a small, nagging scepticism about Jon Snow. She knew how her Queen felt for the Warden of the North, but if Jon Snow felt the same way for Queen Daenerys was another matter. He reminded Missandei of the dark black sea that had greeted them when they had first set sailed for Westeros: quiet and calm, until suddenly, out of nowhere, great swells of rose from the surface, violently tossing their boats around like they were nothing but tiny toys.

What was underneath Jon Snow’s silence? Could it he truly hide his passion almost as well as Greyworm, who had, as a young child been trained to hide his emotions, to not love anything, for it was a weakness? But even Greyworm had lost control, had forgotten his training. He had opened up his heart for her, had filled her with words and caresses that spoke and showed his passion. His love. Even when he was not supposed to show his emotions, Missandei had caught him staring at her, his face filled with longing.

Jon Snow had always kept his eyes trained forward and the glances he gave the Queen never burned, never lingered.

* * *

 

On their last day travelling, Missandei finally gasped out loud as the dark outline of Winterfell emerged from a distance. It was not as imposing as Dragonstone, not as grand as she had imagined it to be. It had a squat look to it, simple and sturdy. A northern thing, as she had come to learn.

Missandei turned her horse to point it out and was just in time to catch Jon Snow’s face as he slowed his horse to a halt. His expression was dark and filled with something that was not quite like anger, but it was as though he was gathering his courage; as if he was about to meet an opponent and not coming home. She could see the outline of his jaws, twitching as he clenched his teeth.

Perhaps, Daenerys had misjudged him, Missandei worried, lowering her face, but flicking her eyes up at him to observe him better. She knew pride, had seen it in other men, in her masters and how they had looked when Daenerys had taken her away from them. She could see how this would seem to Jon Snow as they arrived in Winterfell: he had left the North as a King and here he was, returning as consort to The Mother of Dragons.  

She had heard stories of how volatile his temperament was. She had never seen him be anything but courteous and sometimes overly polite, bordering on ceremonial even, so she had not believed those rumors. But Greyworm had told her how Jon Snow had violently grabbed the brother of Lady Asha Greyjoy by his jerkins. That poor snivelling boy that everyone had secretly pitied. Jon Snow had uttered a threat that made Theon tremble in abject horror and fear.

Missandei shuddered at the sudden memory of finding him one night as he stood alone on the deck of the ship, his face hidden by the dark. He took great big gulping breaths, as though steadying his nerves or reining in an unspeakable kind of rage. She had quickly turned away, hurrying over to her own cabin, afraid of something she wasn’t quite sure what. All she remembered was wondering how he could stand such coldness? Does it not burn his skin the same way it does hers? She had only went outside, braving the cold to visit Greyworm, but had instantly regretted it the moment the freezing air blasted against her body, like a real physical force that had made her knees wobble.

Missandei had immediately told all this to Daenerys of course, but she had not seemed in the least bit worried. In fact, she had been thrilled to find out that Jon Snow had been brooding that night. Did he seemed torn? Confused? “My Jon Snow is dark and moody, it is all Missandei. Do not be scared of him. He is intense but also very tender. To those who he wishes to be tender with, of course.”

It was not how it seemed to her at all, but Missandei dared not correct her Queen. She felt that Daenerys deserved to be thrilled by this new found romance that seemed to lift up her spirits, especially after all the setbacks that she had had to endure in the South, losing all the allegiances she had formed, having to call on a truce with the false Lannister Queen.

Missandei wondered now, if she should have said more and winced as she realized that Daenerys would probably not have listened to her if she had. She watched warily as Daenerys’s grey-white palfrey trotted beside Jon Snow’s and together, they wordlessly stared at Winterfell.

They looked strangely mismatched, Missandei thought. Daenerys in her white winter robe, her fair hair glittering with the silver ornaments she herself had pinned on early this morning and Jon Snow in his black thick coat, all leather and wool the color of night so severe, there were no stars, only unyielding darkness.

The Queen only stopped for a few seconds before she tugged at her reins and urged her horse to move forward. Jon Snow followed, shoulders hunched, fist flashing white and pale as he tightened his hold on his reins. Overheard, the dragons screeched their songs, high pitched and terrible, even Missandei could feel her heart stuttering in fear. She could never truly get used to Queen’s dragons.

Winterfell loomed at them, becoming bigger and wider as they got nearer. Missandei had to stretch her neck as she followed the tower soaring high above them. The grey sigil, the direwolf, fluttered and snapped against the wind.

Someone must have seen them from a far for she heard shouting, although she could not understand what it was they were saying, winds took the words away, blew it and scattered it about them. The gates opened with a loud creak, steel and iron grating against each other. It sounded like a shrill protest, before finally Winterfell was opened up to them.

There was a crowd already gathered at the center and she quickly found Lady Arya Stark, her face as blank and as emotionless as the Unsullied. Beside here was a man-boy sitting on a chair, his legs bent at an unnatural angle. A cripple. But where was Jon Snow’s other sister? The Lady of Winterfell? Missandei could not find Jon Snow’s face in any of the other women standing with the Lady Arya.

There was a hushed silence as they entered and as if to truly welcome them, snow began to fall. Soft and almost whimsical, fluttering gently to settle on their coats and hair. Snow disappeared as soon as they fall on Daenerys, the white of her coat, the white-gold of her hair. Snow caught and melted on the red furs sewn in between her coat, like veins of red, warm blood.

They were a few feet from the great door when Daenerys stopped and turned to look at Jon Snow. In a quiet voice, that seemed to ring inside Missandei’s ear, her Queen said: “Your sister Arya told true. She truly is beautiful, your Lady of Winterfell.”

Daenerys’s smile sliced like a knife.

And in that split second, Missandei realized that the tall girl with red hair, who stood apart and waited with hands clasped in front of her, snowflakes clinging to crown her red hair was The Lady of Winterfell. Jon Snow’s sister.

She stood like a Queen. Tall and sure of herself. What was it that the Lady Mormont had said in the tent, about a Queen in the North whose name was Stark?

Missandei swallowed hard as she took a quick glance at Jon Snow. His face had turned from anxious to gentle to something dark and menacing and something inside Missandei’s chest clenched tightly.

And now she understood Jon Snow’s careful distance, the cold formality he had always shown.

Had Jon Snow had been false in his promises?  

Would Jon Snow truly want a Targaryan Queen to rule over his land? To have power over him and his sisters and brother? His people? Was his love for Daenerys greater than his love for his Northern? Had they been too swift in trusting him? In letting him lead them to his land of ice and snow?

Missandei wondered if, the blindfold had been taken off, and her Queen had finally seen Jon Snow as Missandei sees him now: a dangerous man, with secrets hiding underneath the surface, waiting, bidding it’s time to rise up and swell, taking them all down as it crashed against the unwelcoming dark sea.

* * *

 

**Tyrion**

 

_“Your sister Arya told true. She truly is beautiful, your Lady of Winterfell.”_

Tyrion Lannister felt his whole body stiffening and not from the blasted cold winds.

He had heard his father utter a threat a thousand different ways, all having the same effect on men who cowered and scampered away, piss in their pants. And no matter how gentle Daenerys’s tone had been as she made this observation, Tyrion knew that the game is up.

And such a short lived game it was. All his fault. He had thought he could manage this for a while more, at least buy him some time to figure out the best way to harness the volatile power that is Daenerys Targaryen and her dragons.

She was born to be a Queen, true. Had in fact ruled, albeit briefly and with disastrous effects – which they have all conveniently left behind – and which, more than anything had confirmed his fears: that Daenerys was still but a child when it comes to governing a realm as chaotic as Westeros. Not to say that she lacked the courage and the will to become a great Queen, only that she still needed time and guidance to truly fathom power and responsibility.

Tyrion had seen a little of himself in her. A lonely child, who no doubt longed not be feared but to be loved; craving for affection that was genuine and not just because of her family name. He had thought that they did not have such different childhood. Yes, his family had not been brutally killed and he had not been sent into exile across the Narrow Sea, although his father had probably fleetingly toyed with the idea, but Tyrion knew how it was to not belong, to not have lasting, nurturing relationship from his own family; to have done everything to survive on his own.  

There was an opportunity there, how he and Daenerys were almost alike. He just couldn’t quite figure out what and how to use it. And then Jon Snow arrived in Dragonstone with such perfect timing, he only had to look at his Queen and then at Jon Snow and then back again for the idea to take place and take hold.

Why not?

After all, Snow was no longer just Ned Stark’s bastard. He was no longer tied to any vow of celibacy from the Night’s Watch (he must ask how _that_ happened) and more importantly, he was now King in the North. They were both of age and unmarried. They were even the same height! What wonderful luck that was!

And, also had a common enemy.

Daenerys had been intrigued and then clearly attracted to Jon Snow’s obvious disinterest in her. If Tryion did not know any better, he’d guess that Daenerys had taken Snow’s natural northern aloofness as an insult and then as a challenge. For surely, no man had been able to resist her and Jon Snow was just an ordinary man, a little broody and mysterious, but nothing like the great and powerful men that had clamoured for her affection.

The boy at least knew not to fawn over Daenerys. He was the first one who had not been so eager to please the Mother of Dragon, had not immediately knelt down to offer his sword and his affections, had not even been _that_ impressed even with the three dragons swooping down upon them. Perhaps seeing an army of the undead had made Snow immune to fire breathing dragons.

Truth be told, Tyrion himself had been impressed when Jon Snow had not dissolved into a tongue-tied, lovesick fool upon seeing Daenerys Targaryen. Because every man had been, himself included. But Jon Snow seemed to be an exception.

It was as perfect situation that was presented to him as clearly as his father had shown his disdain for him.

Oh, there was an attraction. Jon Snow, damned his honor and all, would not be able to deny that he found the Targaryen Queen beautiful beyond words and when she had started looking at him with stars in her eyes, Tyrion could sense that Snow had felt more than just a hint of curiosity.

Curiosity that could be prodded towards lust.

Tyrion did not even have to work too hard trying to convince Daenerys to trust Jon Snow. His stupid heroics had been enough to further endear him to the Dragon Queen, despite Viserys’s untimely demise after their wight hunt. In fact, that might have been the catalyst to the whole thing.

Dany was in mourning, feeling guilty and overwhelmed with emotions. Jon Snow had barely survived, had seen Dany’s heartbreak over the death of her… child. There was nothing like a sustained feeling of adrenalin after a life threatening event, quickly followed by remorse and guilt, to start a romance.

Again, it was perfect. Everything had fallen into place without Tyrion having to actually lift any of his fingers. Varys had advised him against it, but did he listen? Of course not.

He saw an opportunity and Tyrion Lannister never let opportunities pass him by. Not if he can help it. Sustaining the illusion of Jon Snow being in love with Daenerys Targaryen was hardly a challenge. Not when Daenerys was already half way smitten and fully aware of her womanly charms. It was simply inconceivable that Jon Snow would be immune to her.

But… no. Tyrion had miscalculated.

There were forewarnings he had decided to ignore.

When Jon Snow had looked down upon him as he asked about his young wife who had auspiciously disappeared from King’s Landing during the trial for Joeffrey’s murder, there was a flicker in Snow’s eyes that silently warned him that he was not fit to utter Sansa’s name ever again. There was an obscurely dangerous tilt in Snow’s head that made him quickly confess that their marriage had been unconsummated. A sham marriage, truly. A marriage that he could not help but want to talk about until Jon had abruptly told him that he had not asked and therefore he, Tyrion Lannister, best shut up about it. More than anything, Tyrion was extremely thankful that he had not called Snow his bastard half-brother-in-law.

Tryion had dismissed Snow’s reaction as natural. It was the kind of thing Ned Stark would have thought his sons, even his bastard one: to always protect the dignity of their sisters. Especially from lecherous Lannisters.

Snow’s near violent outburst upon seeing and seizing Theon Greyjoy, was in itself easily explained. Of course Snow would feel more merciful towards the spineless kraken (frankly, worm suited Greyjoy more, after he had cowardly abandoned his _own_ sister).

Jon Snow sparing Greyjoy’s life in exchange for helping Sansa Stark escape that sick crazy Bolton bastard was boringly predictable. He had not thought that there was nothing out of the ordinary about that. How could he? This was Jon Snow, Ned Stark’s bastard son. Ned fed and bathed his children with honor.

It was impossible that there was any other reason beyond the obvious. Which was – well, it was an ending cycle of thought and Tyrion had not bothered too much to look into Snow’s behaviour, which was, again, seemed reasonable. At that time, at least.

* * *

 

It was on their way back from King’s Landing when he had finally proposed his plan of merging the last great remaining houses of Westeros. His talk with his sister had confirmed one thing: that Cersei had gone mad.

Flaunting a babe fathered by her very own twin brother!  

Of course practically everyone in the Kingdom now believed that all of Robert’s children were bastards born out of incest, why else did they suffer such cruel fates if it was not so? But it was one thing to deny it by killing off Ned Stark and effectively starting The War of the Five Kings. It was an entirely different thing when Cersei was all but announcing it to the whole of the Seven Kingdom.

It was pure madness. The kind of madness that had already taken root and was already inescapable. Cersei had started her descent towards lunacy and whether or not she was aware of it, was no longer Tyrion’s concern.

Cersei cannot sustain her hold on the Iron Throne. Not for long anyway. It would not take much for the people to start denouncing Cersei and in comes the Targaryen Queen, rightful heir to the throne, mother of dragons that had also conveniently battled and defeated the Night King. Daenerys Targaryen had saved the Kingdom with the help of her husband and Northern ally.

It was the union of two great houses that could finally signal the start of healing all of Westeros’s wounds.

As far as plans and stratagems goes, Tyrion was quiet proud of having thought of it. And so he had enthusiastically cornered Jon Snow and told him that allegiances – true and long lasting allegiances - were better formed by marriage and not by force.

Let House Targaryen and House Stark lead in the restoring of peace in the realm. After all, would it not be poetic, seeing as the Great War that had caused the Targaryens to flee was all because a Targaryen Prince had fallen in love with a Stark girl? Songs would be written and sung about them: A song of fire and Ice!

The King in the North was less than enthusiastic. In fact, he had merely shaken his head, clenched his jaw, looked away and then flatly refused. Adamantly at first and then threateningly.

“Mention this again, Imp and I shall throw you overboard. Water this cold would feel like plunging into a thousand knives,” were Jon Snow’s exact words and although Tyrion doubted that Snow would actually do it, had made a conscious decision, right there and then, to avoid going out of his cabin for the rest of their time sailing the icy waters back to Dragonstone.  

It had gotten to a point that Ser Davos, had chided him about it and Tyrion had vaguely felt insulted by the other Hand, but he refrained himself from taking things much too personally. That was how wars eventually get started, he reminded himself. Thankfully the ship was big and he was little enough, that he could safely avoid Jon Snow and his scoundrel _pirate_ Hand until he has something better to offer.

Tyrion could understand why Snow would not be immediately amenable to his plan. Of course, as the King in the North, he would have to stand his ground, even if it is all for appearances sake, because he must already know that he truly did not have a choice in this matter.

The North will bend its knee. It was inevitable. Dany still had two dragons and two armies. The North is struggling, no matter how much Jon Snow would say otherwise. They have barely survived The War of Five Kings and what little that was left of their fierce Northern warriors were diminished still after the Battle of the Bastards. Even that win was not the North’s alone. The Vale had helped them.

But the Vale cannot help them now. Even the Vale would abandon whatever allegiance they have with the North once it was threatened with dragons. The impenetrable Vale would become vulnerable with dragons flying over them.

The North has nothing. All it has is this Gods awful winter but winter cannot last forever. Jon Snow knows this. He would not sacrifice his people and his family for pride.

Of course, Tyrion did not want to have to put the North’s surrender into such terms. It sounded so… _forceful_. He wanted to refrain from having to use any form of violence and aggression. If they were going to convince the people of Westeros that Daenerys Targaryen was a Queen worthy of loyalty and love, the mere rumor of a threat to burn off a whole kingdom would definitely not do the trick. He had begged Daenerys to just have a little more patience, she had already burned one army, not to mention all the grains and provisions ransacked from Highgarden. It would only take a matter of time before the people from all over the Kingdom would hear about this and it would be better to have something positive to counter that.

Saving them from the Army of the Dead was their only bet. And Jon Snow has to willingly bend his knees so that others would follow.

Tyrion had given Jon Snow enough time and distance to make it seem like he had at least tried to fight for and stand up for his people. Snow would see that this was his only logical choice. He had witnessed how dangerously impulsive Daenerys could be. She needs someone who could calm her down, who could talk her against turning the whole of Westeros into a pile of cinders. The Gods knew he had tried plenty of times to make her understand that threatening the Kingdom with her dragons was not the best way to the people’s hearts.

“Did she not burn the Lannister army and the food supplies against my advice?” Jon had asked him when Tyrion offhandedly mentioned how Daenerys seemed to listen more to The King in the North than her own Hand.

Well. _Fuck_. Tyrion had wordlessly blinked up at Snow before reaching towards his cup of wine, swallowing slowly as he tried to think of a better response. None came. Other than, “Well, you weren’t lovers then. If you were, I’m sure she would have been more… _amenable_ to your advice.”

Jon Snow arched his eyebrows. Why, because we are unequal? He seemed to silently ask but Tryion decided to ignore him.

“Think about it. You need her, she needs you. It makes sense. Be smart about this, Jon Snow.”

It seemed like the wrong thing to say because the moment he had said it, a black look crossed Snow’s face, like a shadow passing through. The adamant refusal began again, which escalated to more threats.

“Lord Tyrion, you must think I am a stupid green boy who would give up what my people had fought for just to bed your Dragon Queen. More importantly, you must think her a silly little girl if you believe that she will fall for someone who she had barely met. _Enough_. I will feed you to my direwolf if you ever bother me with this again.”

Tyrion backed down. But he was nothing but persistent, especially when he knew that he had not done everything in his powers to get what he wanted and needed. Not when he had sensed a whiff of breathless desire from Daenerys when Jon Snow had stood up to Cersei and told her that he would only serve one Queen.

And so, on their first night sailing for Winterfell, Tyrion offered his last remaining bargaining chip.

Jon Snow suddenly became very still, the muscles on his jaw twitching angrily as he stared down at him. He didn’t instantly refuse or threaten. Instead he looked at him long and hard, until Tyrion had wanted to throw himself overboard and save Snow all the trouble.

For the first time since the Northerners had arrived in Dragonstone, Tyrion felt nervous, fearful even. He had forgotten that this Jon Snow, was now a King and not the sulky boy he had met all those years ago. This was the man who had been able to retake Winterfell by doing something that has never been done before for thousands of years: combining the Wildlings and the North. Two enemies since before the Targaryens have even landed in the shores of Dragonstone, fighting together under his command.

Jon Snow, Ned Stark’s bastard son, who rose up to become Commander of the Night’s Watch and was now a King. A King who was now looking down at him with unconcealed contempt, eyes as dark and cold as the winter storm raging outside.

Tryion had been careless. He had forgotten that he was merely a Hand of the Queen. A Hand acting without the knowledge and approval of said Queen. He swallowed hard as his mind quickly arranged the words to conciliate, to humble himself upon a King that he had thoughtlessly offended and treated with disrespect.

But before he could even open his mouth, Jon Snow leaned back, crossed his arms and asked, “How do I know you will not be false? That you will keep your promise.”

Wait.

What?

Gods _almighty_.

Tyrion did not see this coming at all. He was not prepared at the way Jon Snow was suddenly, seriously considering his proposition. He had thrown in this little piece of bone, certain that it would make Jon Snow at least think about the influence and power he could wield if he was the Queen’s consort. Tyrion had not expected that this was something that Jon Snow would accept as a trade-off.

Tyrion saw the chance and seized it, before Jon Snow changed his mind. “You have my word, your Grace. I shall write to the Citadel now.” His throat felt dry, like a stone had lodged itself inside and he had to let out a small cough to get rid of the croaky sound he made. He tried to remain calm as he realized what this could mean, how he might, unexpectedly actually get Jon Snow to agree with his plan. He needed to tread carefully. “You could even dictate what I shall write. You can send the raven yourself.”

Jon gave him a measured glance that did not mask the sudden shining hopeful look in his eyes. It caught Tyrion by surprise and he felt oddly confused, as though he had given up something he should not have. Snow was probably just doing this to protect his sister, it did lessen the power that Daenerys could hold over him. Was that all that mattered to Snow then?

“The Maesters shall allow this?” Snow’s voice was still dark and threatening, but at least he wasn’t talking about slicing Tyrion into tiny little pieces for better digestion of his direwolf. This was definitely a step forward. 

Momentarily distracted by the relief that he would be seeing the sun rise tomorrow, Tyrion shrugged. “It will not be the first time. I can promise you that. My great grandfather, Gerold, The Golden, married two women. How do you think he managed that?”

Jon glared at him, clearly trying to figure out if he was telling the truth. “By being an insufferable arsehole, I would guess.”

“Ah. You’ve become strangely funny, your Grace. A good trait for a King.” Tyrion returned with a grin.

“Warden of the North.” Jon Snow corrected, sounding both defeated and defiant.

“So you agree, then?” Tyrion asked, trying his best no to sound too stunned.

The once King in the North looked at him with barely supressed contempt. “To being Dany’s lover, aye. But not to a marriage. Not yet. Not until the Night King is defeated.”

Tyrion nodded. “An even better idea. Let your marriage be the celebration of your triumph over dark magic and whatever the North calls them, those undead _dead._ Or is it the dead undead?”

“Wights.” Snow offered with scowl, “Less stupid that undead dead.”

Tyrion managed not to roll his eyes. “Yes. I will remember that, thank you.”

Letting out a tired sigh, Jon Snow took a moment to rub his whole face, short of actually pulling out his hair before finally sitting up straighter and meeting Tyrion’s eyes. “And what of Daenerys? She would not object?

Tyrion knew that if Dany knew, she would most certainly object. But since he was doing this for her, then he still might be able to talk his way out of this. And anyway, he could spin this as some grand goodwill gesture for the North, which she will need, seeing that she was by all intent and purpose, conquering it against their will.

“She will not. I am her Hand and she trusts me.”

“Then, should you not be writing to the Citadel now, Lord Tyrion?”Jon asked as he nodded towards a stack of parchment Tyrion kept at the top of his dresser. “And write everything as I say.”

Tyrion tried not to quickly hobble over to grab the parchment and ink, but time was of the essence. If he gave Snow just a moment more, he might suddenly change his mind.

He never wrote as carefully as he did so that night.

* * *

 

Tyrion had received the Citadel’s reply but he had not handed it over to Jon Snow, which the Warden of the North had not appreciated. After all they had only agreed that he would to send the raven but not get the response. He should have insisted on that if he had wanted to make sure if his petition had been granted. Jon Snow was still painfully, obviously a novice at the game of thrones. Well, this was an important lesson Tyrion had so generously taught him. May Jon Snow remember it well if he was determined to keep on playing with the likes of him.

Tyrion had guessed that this was the reason behind Snow’s sudden hostile look and chilly silences. It did not matter anyway. Tyrion had kept the end of his bargain and he knew that Jon Snow would do the same.

Except, he could not, if Daenerys had suddenly realized what he too was now realizing.

Everything was slowly, horribly falling into place and Tyrion cursed himself for not listening to his instinct, for naively assuming that honor was a deeply ingrained Stark trait. Apparently, it was not. A bastard was a bastard, crowning him King could not change the fact that a bastard’s blood was forever tainted.

Not that he could entirely blame Snow’s bastard blood.

Tyrion had forgotten that the Sansa Stark in his memory was but a child. She might have been smarted up during her stay under King’s Landing, under the ruthless tutelage of Cersei, but he had seen her as a pretty rose, but without its thorn. Weepy and hopeless, easily manipulated by the likes of Littlefinger and Varys, if he had had the chance to take her under his wing. It cast a shadow over her lovely face, it made him think less of her, of how once he _had_ , Seven help him, inappropriately lusted over her.

The Sansa Stark that was now awaiting them was woman grown, the teary-eyed, pale faced girl he had married was gone.

She looked very like her mother. She had Catelyn Starks ramrod spine. She had not grown thorns, but had become sturdier, no longer so easily plucked from her home. Even from this distance, Tyrion was certain that Sansa had become lovelier over time. Her auburn hair had become a richer darker color, her cheeks had no doubt, filled up, no longer the soft apple-curved look of a child. He remembered the tapered, elegant Tully cheekbones. And oh, those Tully blue eyes that made all the Tully women famous. Not to mention their biting sharp wits. If she had gotten that from her mother too, then of course even her bastard half-brother would have found her intriguing or worst, irrisistable.

Sansa Stark. 

Who would have thought she would come this far? She had survived Joffrey, Cersei, Littlefinger, Ramsay Bolton. And here she was, the Lady of Winterfell.

Everything her mother had trained her to be, she no doubt had remembered and applied. Everything that Cersei had done to her, she carried with her, on top of those shoulders that were broader and stronger than ever. Every charming anecdote Margaery had shared, Sansa would have kept. All the games Littlefinger had played, she had been part of, and she would have memorized all the schemes Petyr had employed. And from Ramsay Bolton, Tyrion can only shudder as he imagined what she had learned from him.

Just by the way she was quietly waiting for their approach, hands clasped in front of her, calm and severe, an Ice Queen sculpted by the best and worst of the realm.

Tyrion knew that she would be a formidable ally. Or enemy. All depending on his next move.

He did not dare keep his eyes off her as she stood, no longer the meek, obedient prisoner as he had last seen her in King’s Landing, but as Lady of her House. Proud and certain of her place. He could feel the heat of her gaze as she watched them. She wasn’t looking at him, of course, but he was standing in the way and he was certain that anyone inside the courtyard could feel a palpable tension in the air.

Who else knows, he wondered, wincing and cursing underneath his breath as he glanced at Daenerys looking expectantly at Jon Snow.

There was no answer from Snow, her declaration either falling into deaf ears or intentionally ignored.

How bloody fucking typical, Tyrion thought. He watched with mild alarm as Daenerys wordlessly moved forward and as though suddenly yanked by an invisible thread, Jon Snow took two quick, huge steps so that he was already ahead of Daenerys, heading straight for his sister.

All his life, all Tyrion had done was to try and save, first his brother, then his nephew, then King’s Landing, then himself, now the whole fucking Kingdom and he had made good decisions too, in between being the King’s Hand and the Queen’s Hand. He had made several gambles too and had had his fair share of loses, but he had never felt so utterly cornered.

There was nowhere to go but forward.


End file.
